You enjoy watching old movies or listening to Billie Holiday or Nina Simone while you cook? Me too! Immediately I feel like we have a deep, dark secret that has bonded us forever, and I’ve already begun designing the interiors of our clubhouse, searching for a tree that will support it, and debating how many pauses our secret knock should include. Will our secret handshake involve footwork, and how hard will we have to work at not making others feel excluded by our superior, special bond? This is how everyone reacts to a shared love of classic film and jazzy tunes, right?

Headphones in place, slowly and silently the singer leans into the microphone. Only she hears the music; I hear only her voice, and at that moment stirs the irregular feeling in my gut where tears get their running start. My tummy tightens, my breathing shortens, and I smile in one final attempt to stop the crying from bursting through its barrier. I’ve come to know my body well enough to recognize this particular smile; one that’s practically a laugh is also the one that announces the arrival of tears. As the singer moves deeper into the first verse, I can see the music slithering slowly up her microphone until it seems to come out of her mouth as smoothly as the lyrics. At this point I’m as close as I will allow myself to be out of control, sitting in a dark movie theatre next to a good friend, both of us crying our eyes out. Two friends on two separate occasions guessed that I would pin the blue ribbon on “Me and Mr. Jones,” but no, “Back to Black” has always been my favorite of Amy Winehouse’s songs. After the take, she smiles and says, “Ooo it’s a bit upsetting at the end, isn’t it?” Smiling at heartbreak . . . I know the feeling.

Before hitting the movie theatre to see Amy (2015), my friend and I enjoyed a sneak peak at Amy Winehouse: A Family Portrait, “a personal and intimate exhibition about Amy Winehouse (1983-2011), curated by the Jewish Museum London with help from her brother Alex and sister-in-law Riva. The Winehouse family gave the Jewish Museum unprecedented access to Amy’s belongings, including her guitar, record collection, and iconic outfits.” (Contemporary Jewish Museum website).

Read more about the exhibition on Little Magazine by clicking here.

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I fell deeper in love with Amy Winehouse and her music that day, despite the emotionally draining and soul-punching effect of Asif Kapadia’s documentary. The nauseating dizziness that forced me to shut my eyes several times may be the greatest praise that I can shower on this film. I wanted it to end immediately, and I wanted it to go on forever. Having been a fan of Winehouse’s for years, I avoided the movie for weeks, knowing full well what I would be walking into if and when I chose to see it. And let’s face it, folks, we’ve been here before – maybe the Titanic will make it to New York this time; maybe Sean Penn’s Milk will walk out of City Hall; maybe Amy Winehouse will survive it all, record ten more albums, and sing both herself and the world to a happier existence. Alas! I shut my eyes before the film reached its three-minute mark.

At the time when I was just beginning to educate myself on the black-and-white world of classic film, Amy Winehouse’s star was rising. Along with millions of others I was drawn to her voice, her constant nod to the girl groups of the 1950s and 60s, and her inability to be anyone other than the imperfect artist she was at heart. If your exposure to Winehouse was limited to the tabloids, the documentary may not hand you the emotional ass-kicking that it gave me, but for the fans of her music, personality and wardrobe choices, brace yourself – this one’s a troubled track wrapped up in an extraordinary film. When I woke up the next morning, I knew that something more than just the life and death of Ms. Winehouse had kept me from sleeping more than two hours on Tuesday night. But I’ve never been able to ask myself, “What’s wrong?” Instead I have to ask, “Do you know what’s wrong?” I didn’t until I picked up my pen a few hours ago.

Movie theatres, movie rental stores, the used DVD sections of music shops . . . they were all my “safe” places. I can have chats with myself about how living cooped up in an apartment riddled with fear is not truly living, but this one-man self-help seminar doesn’t always do the trick. I wish that I could banish all fear from my body and soul forever, or at least swat it away like a fly when it comes buzzing around my ear. I’m already vulnerable on this particular afternoon – logical or not, the Aurora movie theatre shooting planted a permanent sense of fear in my brain. I was able to tame it a bit on that Tuesday with the very thought that it was a Tuesday, it was the middle of the day, and along with about seven other people in the theatre, I was at a documentary, not a summer blockbuster. Aside from the tears caused by the subject of the film, I remained relatively in control except once, when a man sitting a few rows ahead of us stood up. I followed his every step from his seat to the door and waited anxiously for him to return. Why did he need to get up? Did he have something again fans of Amy Winehouse? Was he a crazed, number-one type fan who felt threatened by the rest of us? Or was it just a case of too much soda and a tiny bladder? The man returned minutes later, my eyes cautiously retraced his steps along with him, and my attention went back to Amy in her final days. After the film we slumped down on a couch in a wine bar across the street from the theatre, discussed it at length, and, as weakened as we felt, admitted that it had been a very pleasant Tuesday.

On Thursday there was another shooting at a movie theatre in Lafayette, Louisiana. The country closed its eyes again, somewhere before the three-minute mark.

Once again I’m left with too many questions . . . what can we do to keep it from always being upsetting at the end?

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It cost me a lot, but I happen to have four versions of “My Man” at my disposal. I could slide down the wall and weep in the corner for days when a heartbroken Billie Holiday asks, “What can I do?” Years later Ella Fitzgerald peps it up slightly, and trust me, if Peggy Lee comes back on her knee someday, her man is sure to get a foot-stompin’ earful about how he’s treated her . . . cold and wet tired, you bet, but all that she won’t soon forget.

At the age of 83, Omar Sharif died today. When Barbra closes out Funny Girl (1968) with “My Man,” tears streaming all the way down to her pantyhose, my skin tingles with the desire both to punch and kiss Sharif’s Nick Arnstein. Although well known for Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and Doctor Zhivago (1965), to me Omar Sharif will always be Nicky Arnstein (he’s got polish on his nails!), the gorgeous man who leads Barbra Streisand’s Fanny Brice gently into womanhood, only to leave her singing and crying and finger-nailing her way through the grand finale of Funny Girl.

Today Barbra Streisand called Omar Sharif “handsome, sophisticated, and charming. He was a proud Egyptian, and in some people’s eyes, the idea of casting him in Funny Girl was considered controversial. Yet somehow, under the direction of William Wyler, the romantic chemistry between Nicky Arnstein and Fanny Brice transcended stereotypes and prejudice.”

We lost Mr. Sharif at a ripe old age, sure, but after I heard the news, I wanted to hop on a tugboat and scream, “Hey Mr. Arrrrrrnstein!” until I felt enough respect had been paid, or an arrest was made . . . either way, he’d get a kick out of it.

Remembering Omar Sharif (1932–2015)

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I’ve been stuck in the 1970s lately. Your parents had that orange couch, too, didn’t they?

I have no one in particular to whom I direct my sporadic prayers, but I do believe in sending positive vibes wrapped with a pastel bow to Valerie Harper. The uncontrollable giggle fits given to me by dear, sweet Miss Morgenstern have certified Rhoda (1974–1978) as solid, runaway in my household. I went on a few dates with a flight attendant who once had Ms. Harper on a trip of his, and I was fully prepared to marry this man purely because he had been in her presence. If life’s first goal is to take a trip to Minneapolis to kiss the Mary Tyler Moore statue (on a clean spot), the second is to kick off my campaign to erect a Valerie Harper statue somewhere in Manhattan.

Because of her new show with Lily Tomlin, Jane Fonda edged her way up towards the top of my queue, and along came Klute (1971) a few weeks ago. Although I’ve always liked Jane Fonda, I’m not planning to hang a framed picture of her any time soon, unless Lily and Dolly happen to be standing there with her, throwing dead bodies into the trunk of a car. That, I would hang proudly on any wall. As she’s never been one of my favorite actors, pangs of guilt never kept me awake at night over neglecting Ms. Fonda’s Oscar-winning performances (oh, it’s happened over others), but it was time. Except during a few scenes and monologues with her analyst that I found crept up on mesmerizing, my mind drifted without losing track of the story. Not the best; not the worst; but oh, the colors of the 70s; the clothes; the furniture; the hairstyles; the nonexistent body fat percentages . . . and of course; the movies. I thought Klute would have soothed the decade craving that plagued me, but it wasn’t enough. The color of my mood ring still matched nothing in my wardrobe.

I’ve been on countless dance floors in my day, but one I’ll never forget is the 1970s party given by one of the dirty ol’ co-ops back in college. I still reminisce with a good friend about the boisterous shenanigans that went on that evening, all without the druggie drugs of the honored decade. A pinch of vodka, perhaps, flowed through our veins, but we didn’t need much else. It’s fitting that this same friend and I bonded over the Tales of the City series 14 years later, as we walked together to our first Cher concert. When I’m bummed out on modern life in San Francisco and search for mementos of the fun that was once and still may be out there, I return to Tales. When I need the television equivalent of comfort food, I return to Tales. Perhaps not as light of a comfort food meal is the 30s of the 70s I find in Cabaret (1972). Respectful hats off, yes, to Ms. Fonda and her hair trendsetting prostitute in Klute, but she ain’t no Sally Bowles. When the world of film and television places the 1970s in another decade, it still feels like the 70s to me – the best and worst aspects are exaggerated for any period piece, and what can be more fun than a 70s soundtrack created in the 90s? Having read all of the Tales of the City books, some twice, often I turn to that delightful 1993 miniseries starring everyone’s favorite person on the planet, Olympia Dukakis. Not to mention the actor who plays the character of Michael Tolliver, my book husband, is a super-duper cutiepants whom I’ve never seen again. He’s ideal, my friends . . . the perfect onscreen one-night stand. Michael dutifully cleans his apartment while Bette Midler’s flawless version of “Am I Blue?” plays in the background. I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I feel love!

I’m convinced that this tidal craving all comes back to Soap (1977–1981). The television show emerged early in life as my primary happy place, defining not only experiences of love, family, and belonging through our nightly gatherings over Oreo ice cream, but also it set the standard that I still use to determine whether or not entertainment may be considered “quality.” Precious to many are those protected moments of childhood, a time when family surrounded us, and we had much more future than we had past. We knew everything that we needed to know, and we knew nothing of what we didn’t know yet. Soap was the family bible, and at that age, I had only one gash on my heart when a character died in season two. The 1970s of Soap bring back to the surface a time when no one had rejected me, no company had turned me down for a job, no nightclub made me feel like I wasn’t listed on the correct clipboard, and I was frightened of nothing. I could take to a ski slope brimming with confidence and absolutely no fear, knowing full well that the snow would catch and cushion and rock and soothe and love me if I fell.

The 1970s and their renditions, enhanced throughout my workday with a bit of “Stoney End” Barbra, sewed themselves together this week, forming a comfort quilt of dreadfully horrible colors, but comforting just the same. It involves some industrious searching to find the perfect combination of fabrics and Rhoda headscarves, but those quilts that eventually we sew for ourselves provide as much comfort as knowing that somewhere, out there in this confusing, overwhelming, frightening, sometimes lonely modern world stands a statue of Mary Tyler Moore with a clean spot waiting to be kissed. And just when we’re about to surrender and call off the search, remember the dance floors of days past and then throw an impromptu party in the kitchen. Mine looks something like this:

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At times I don’t want to think about it; I don’t want to know; I don’t want to be wrong, and I don’t want to be responsible for the next step if I’m right. With the death penalty in and out of our recent news cycles, t’was perhaps not a coincidence that I Want to Live! (1958) ended up doing time in my mailbox. A potpourri of Oscar winners and should-have-won’s spruce up my Netflix queue, and until now my exposure to Susan Hayward’s winning performance was limited to only a brief mention in The Golden Girls. It was time to knock off this one, but after its arrival, bizarrely it sat on the couch for weeks, quite out of character for me. Sometimes it’s not just a popcorn-in-hand, tushy-on-couch kind of movie.

The film tells the stories of Barbara Graham, her murder trial, and a potential execution by gas. Although I was meeting Barbara for the first time, something kept me on the outside of I Want to Live!, admiring not the first-rate performance but instead the frame around it. A bit more wear and tear on the poor “Rewind” and “Pause” buttons this time around, because throughout the film I found myself thinking, “Ooo I liked that shot,” distracting me from following the uncomplicated storyline. Usually I become so enamored with a character or the actor playing her, that I commit the unforgivable crime of overlooking the artists behind the camera. For it was Addison DeWitt who taught us that, at least in the theatre, their function is merely to construct a tower so that the world can applaud a light which flashes on top of it. Eloquently put, yes? Addison was kind of a prick.

Yes, let’s tip our hats to the cinematographers then and face the topic head on – I don’t know where I stand on the death penalty. As I age, my emotional reaction to social issues, political situations, and amount of mustard on my sandwich is harder to predict, much less control. If god forbid a trillion times the death penalty personally touched a part of my life, how on earth could I predict what kind of emotional response I would have? Can I take a firm stand on such an issue when it’s happening to someone else? The ability to see both sides and neither side of an issue is a blessed curse, and every time that happens, my brain commences its automated shutdown process . . . ooo, I liked that shot. And in this case, those exceptional shots kept me safely disassociated from an unthinkable issue and an endless “what if” game – what if we execute her and she didn’t do it? What if we let her go, and she did do it and does it again? What if we lock her up forever, and she feels no remorse? What if we lock her up forever, and she’s innocent? Before Wicked, did we indeed have all of the facts in the case of Water versus Wicked Witch of the West? Did she deserve to be liquidated simply for wanting her dead sister’s shoes back? Other than air pollution via skywriting, what were her real crimes? What if Oz police started to target green-skinned women? What if mistakes are made legally, and the mistake itself becomes the process?

Mulling over something as incompressible as the death penalty, I distracted myself with the technical elements of the film (again, not to be disparaged), which proved the safer escape vehicle. When a piece of art forces its audience to scrutinize and come to terms with their own feelings on such dilemmas, we can hardly classify it as a flaw; I knew that one day I would revisit I Want to Live!, perhaps at a time when the news gives me less to escape from and more to hope for . . . now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to my local bookstore and lay myself down on the Personal Growth table.

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Academy Award for I Want to Live! (1959): Best Actress in a Leading Role

Add I Want to Live! to your Netflix queue.

 

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When a friend invited me to guest host on her radio show and discuss the great mothers of TV, in my mind a fierce battle erupted between the leading ladies of television and the grand mothers of film. Place your bets, anyone? Roseanne versus Mo’Nique from Precious? For every television mother I chose as a potential topic of discussion, at least five from the silver screen appeared in my head, each one drowning me in guilt as only a movie mother can for not mentioning her. On this Mother’s Day we offer a bit of advice, a few pearls of wisdom, and perhaps gardening tips for your rose gardens from the most beloved mothers (and a few mother figures) of film.

 

10) Mrs. Flax – Mermaids (1990), played by Cher

“Charlotte, I know you’re planning a celibate life, but with half my chromosomes, I think that might be tough.”

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9) Carolyn Burnham – American Beauty (1999), played by Annette Bening

“Honey, I’m so proud of you. You know, I watched you very closely; you didn’t screw up once!”

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8) Joan Crawford – Mommie Dearest (1981), played by Faye Dunaway

“When I told you to call me that, I wanted you to mean it.”

 

 

7) Mame Dennis – Auntie Mame (1958), played by Rosalind Russell

“A divine man, such talented fingers . . . oh, what he did to my bust. That’s the head, you know.”

 

 

6) Mildred Pierce – Mildred Pierce (1945), played by Joan Crawford

“I never used to drink at all . . . just a little habit I picked up from men.”

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5) Regina Giddens – The Little Foxes (1941), played by Bette Davis

“Why, Alexandra! You have spirit after all. I used to think you were all sugar water.”

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4) Rose Castorini – Moonstruck (1987), played by Olympia Dukakis

“When you love ‘em, they drive you crazy, ‘cause they know they can.”

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3) Mrs. Robinson – The Graduate (1967), played by Anne Bancroft

“I’m getting pretty tired of all this suspicion. Now if you won’t do me a simple favor, I don’t know what!”

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2) Eleanor of Aquitaine – The Lion in Winter (1968), played by Katharine Hepburn

“Henry, I have a confession . . . I don’t much like our children.”

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1) Mrs. Bates – Psycho (1960)

She had no lines – more often than not, mothers gave us only a single look that could communicate their feelings of love and devotion. Either that, or “watch it, Buster; the ice under your feet is beginning to crack.”

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When you love her, she drives you crazy, ‘cause she knows she can. Thanks for everything, Mom . . . Happy Mother’s Day!

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I had to watch certain scenes of Life Itself (2014) through my picket fence. With my middle and ring fingers touching my forehead and my pinky and index finger on either eyebrow, my hand defensively fences off sections of the television screen when the subject matter makes me squeamish, unconformable, or giddy with anticipation because the call is coming from inside the house. It was during Life Itself’s first close-up shots of Roger Ebert after his many surgeries due to thyroid cancer that my fence flourished, each picket moving closer and closer together. But as I brushed up on Ebert’s early days – a day job of editing followed by nights of drinking, and eventually a career arguing about film with a competitor – my fence began to lower, and the squirming dwindled into the occasional shift. Despite the physical and emotional challenges of Ebert’s later years, to me this man truly lived the dream. Roger Ebert and Lupita Nyong’o who, as she coasted towards the stage to accept an Academy Award, got to hug Liza Minnelli. Yup, those two. THE dream.

Amongst all of the old footage and photos peppering Life Itself, one in particular catapulted out of my screen with the moxie of Captain EO. If truly a candid shot, this image provides us with the tiniest snapshot of a glimpse into the process of a meticulous man, a superior artist who treasured not only the world of film but also the art of writing itself. The iconic image of Marilyn Monroe from The Seven Year Itch (1955) – likely the first to appear in the minds and loins of most when her name is mentioned – towers above Ebert’s computer screen, protected not by one but two Donald Ducks. While Marilyn forever belongs to everyone and no one, a certain level of ownership radiates from this photo, as if Ebert both controls and manipulates the winds of the New York subways at will, that dress floating up for him and him alone. This particular Monroe was his exclusively, or so she would have him believe . . . in the end we all belonged to her.

I have a Monroe of my own who watches over me while I write and edit and rewrite and pace and curse at my apartment walls. A bully of a muse, at times she both possesses and withholds all inspiration, as she teases and challenges and taunts me through the process, daring me to try something new. During moments of peak frustration when the Well of Creativity runs dry, I bark at her a bit, likely frightening the neighbors with my booming “WHAT? Whatcha lookin’ at?” But my tantrums tire me out eventually, and I realize I can’t spend the entire night blaming a portrait . . . a few hours more, yes, but not the entire night. Yes, my Marilyn denies me winks and smiles, and she never whoopsy-daisily shows me her undergarments, but she can pressure me to get back to work with the commanding force of a drill sergeant.

I grinned to no one when I noticed that, after a few hours of scratching down my thoughts on Roger Ebert, the words on my page sprinted with gusto back to Marilyn Monroe. I began to wonder how he would react to such a phenomenon; the idealist in me believes that he would have appreciated such an unsuppressed shift in focus, while the jealous writer on my other shoulder assumes all artists to be equally, if not more jealous and prone to fury when brutally ignored. But no matter; here we see Roger Ebert in the zone; the zone that Life Itself captures and reveals in those moments when we decide to knock down our fences. Ebert said it better; he saw more; he knew more; he lectured; he wrote; he stopped drinking; he married; he argued and won; he argued and lost; he watched some more; he spoke when he had no voice; he lived. To be a film critic so trusted, loved, and hated – only that magical trio of feedback proves to the world that you’ve made it, Ma.

Add Life Itself to your queue.

I’m always tickled when Little Magazine asks me to create a music playlist for them. Given a general theme, I begin compiling an overflowing list of possibilities, eventually seeking guidance from my taskmistress – often at 1am – in reference to the maximum number of songs that she will allow. Yet the stress of choosing and rating and sorting and resorting is a cakewalk compared to the stomach-punching anxiety that comes with permanently deleting a song. Every time I cut a song, a jukebox fairy dies.

The springtime playlist that I composed for Little Magazine provided an opportunity for a thorough review of my library; the hefty number of film and television soundtracks found in my archives was quite a shock to . . . well . . . no one. Typically I stay away from the alcohol when I write, but this lovely glass of Sofia Coppola rosé and I decided today to reveal our top-ten favorite movie soundtracks. Since we’re breaking our “no alcohol” rule, we came up with a few others to compensate:

1) We’re leaving out musical scores – not to be sniffed at, but we’d have to include all of our favorite Disney movies; Hitchcock would be all over the place (minus The Birds, of course); Jaws would have to be included in order for us to post this list guilt free; and Moonstruck . . . oh, Moonstruck.

2) We’re leaving out the musicals – way too easy, and way too hard. You want me to compare A Star Is Born to Cabaret? Too treacherous a road.

3) We’re leaving out words and phrases like “best” and “all-time greatest,” not because we’re ashamed of our choices, but because we’re afraid of you flinging disgusting objects in our direction (yes, I’m looking at you).

4) Sofia and I fought over this one – although not a musical, The Skeleton Twins (2014) may not be included just because of this magical moment:

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10) O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)

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Despite two attempts, the deep, devoted love that so many feel for this Coen brothers film never blossomed in me, but I do find that Harry McClintock’s “Big Rock Candy Mountain” slips easily into many a playlist. And it must be the banjos of this bluegrass soundtrack that transport me immediately to the first few moments of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland.

 

9) The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994)

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After a binge watching of Ugly Betty, I came to the realization that “Save the Best for Last” should be played at least once a day. No offence to the drag queen hidden in the shadows of the closing credits, but I would have teared up if Vanessa Williams had made an appearance in this wickedly fun film. “Sometimes the snow comes down in June; Sometimes the sun goes round the moon” – poetry at its finest.

 

8) 200 Cigarettes (1999)

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This cinematic masterpiece became the bible of one of my most treasured of friendships. Tunes of the sun-setting 1970s meet those emerging in the early 1980s, and together they skip down the streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. Watch for an Oscar-snubbed Martha Plimpton – she’s ferocious, and she knows just it takes to make a pro blush.

 

7) Mermaids (1990)

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Take it from me, she’s a better catch – outshining the original, Cher’s version of “The Shoop Shoop Song (It’s in His Kiss)” opens this assortment of classics, closing with Jimmy Soul’s “If You Wanna Be Happy.” A matchmaking service for ugly girls could never be played on the PC iStations of today.

 

6) Pulp Fiction (1994)

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Bless Mr. Tarantino’s dark and bloody heart for introducing Dusty Springfield to a generation that may have never had the pleasure.

 

5) Dirty Dancing (1987)

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You’ll find a decent amount of overlapping with the tunes from Mermaids, but seriously, what’s with the music industry? This nostalgic treasury should have launched Patrick Swayze’s singing career. Keep your eye out for one of Mom’s personal favorites – the cover of “You Don’t Own Me” by The Blow Monkeys changes absolutely everything about Lesley Gore’s original.

 

4) Footloose (1984)

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With Sammy Hagar’s “The Girl Gets Around” blasting underneath me, I have no doubt that I could stand between two cars and play chicken with an 18-wheeler . . . and win. Please note that this soundtrack should be played only on cassette tape in a silver boombox and while wearing red boots.

 

3) The Big Chill (1983)

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Speaking of cassette tapes, when we were kids we drew a happy face on the side of the tape we liked and a frowning face on the other. Side “A” of The Big Chill ended with Three Dog Night “Joy to the World,” and Side “B” closed with “Tell Him” by The Exciters. The Big Chill was all smiles on all sides.

 

2) The Graduate (1967)

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“Put it in the pantry with your cupcakes.” I never knew – is that a dirty line? I’ll always take the side of the character in a leopard coat, but when Simon and Garfunkel generate an emotional apathy within Benjamin, my allegiance to Mrs. Robinson begins to crumble.

 

1) Dick Tracy (1990)

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Square jaw; ooo such a handsome face. Madonna’s I’m Breathless album not only blessed the world with the dance floor (and my kitchen floor) classic “Vogue” but also scored Stephen Sondheim an Academy Award for the song “Sooner or Later.”

Beauty’s where you find it:

In the packet sitting on my trunk that also functions as a coffee table, only a single cookie remained. Within five days, I was rejected for not one but two jobs and mutually decided with a very nice gentleman that future dates were no longer necessary. In the face of personal and professional rebuffs, I give myself about 12 hours to slosh around in hopelessness before it’s time to put down the cookies and embrace that backbone we were told comes with “being a man.” At moments like these, when I become desperate for a male role model, usually I turn to Katharine or Bette (Davis or Midler, pick a broad), who taught me more about male strength than any man ever could. But as I wandered towards the DVD shelf, allowing myself no time to browse, my hand seized The Boys in the Band (1970), originally a play that was adapted into a film starring its original cast members. Hiding away that final cookie in the cupboard and instead bringing to the couch a bowl of overly priced blueberries, I was ready to visit the boys once again. But thirty minutes in, I turned them off and decided instead to take a stroll down Elm Street.

A true diehard fan of the Nightmare on Elm Street series knows to queue up the fourth installment when one yearns for not only true campy horror but also the enchanting time period when the 80s became a little grungy before the 90s took hold. At the end of the fourth film, Alice, the young virgin hero of the piece, backflips her way down a church aisle and starts wailing on Freddy Krueger, who, at this point in the franchise, has developed a wicked sense of comic timing. Anger turns to rage in young Alice, but with every ferocious punch she delivers, Freddy meets them all with laughter. It’s a delicious fight scene with a gooey ending that reminds all thirtysomethings of how blessed we once were when we turned on our VCRs.

Following an urban family of friends who gather for one’s birthday, The Boys in the Band transforms quickly from zingy one-liners to the brutality of a truth-telling slumber party game, if all the slumber party guests were downing vodka and smoking weed. Sounds fitting for my particular mood that evening, one could say, at least in the allotted 12-hour period. So what the devil happened that night? First it was a beeline towards The Boys in the Band followed immediately by a second for A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master (1988)? Was it the campy comparison between the two that kept me from settling in? Perhaps it was the lack of an attention span that plagues us all? An unplanned theme night with characters that focus on proper nail maintenance?

I couldn’t put my unmanicured finger on it until days later when I was watching a documentary about The Boys in the Band. While listening to some of the critics who found both the original play and film offensive and glorifying gay stereotypes, I understood why I went back to Alice’s final showdown with Freddy, and the questions seemed to scroll across my living room wall like the showtimes at a movie theatre (remember those?). Living in a century when everyone is offended by everything, and voicing outrage may get one’s name in the headlines, I began to wonder . . . when should I voice my opposition and march down the streets with signs and petitions, and when should I simply laugh at those who offend me? Is one course more astute, more mature, or more reasonable than the other? Could I one day possess the level of emotional tenacity displayed by Freddy Krueger and laugh in the faces of pain and rejection?

Oh, I was always a Freddy sympathizer – teenagers are monsters.

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While mulling over The Boys in the Band and scribbling down notes about “gay” this and “don’t label me” that, I began to feel stirrings of anger that perhaps mimicked that of the 1970s audiences. While I may not feel the deep anger – and perhaps even deeper fear – that some may have felt at the time, I try to understand it. There were indeed lovers of both the film and the play from all neighborhoods (lines around the block, I hear), and I will forever envy those who saw the original cast perform in New York. But those who give negative reviews tend to roar when they give them, drowning out the courtly tones of those who shower something with praise.

One reaction to the play that stuck with me was that it gives audiences the green light to disrespect gay characters. Okay . . . I see where you’re coming from, sir, and I hear you, but did we have respect for George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Speaking only for myself, I’d have to say no, I didn’t exactly look up to them with respect and admiration. Am I wildly entertained by their drinking and verbal abuse of one another? Oh, absolutely! George and Martha may have shattered the image of the happily married man and woman, but we had to live with that stereotype for years before the world was ready for that earsplitting shatter. And some people, gay and straight, man and woman, liberal and conservative, just didn’t like it. Period. One day I’ll summon the courage to write about why I never cared for Citizen Kane (1941), but here’s the thing – at least I’ve seen Citizen Kane. If you have only heard that The Boys in the Band’s portrayal of gay characters is offensive, full of trigger words, and will cause you loads of distress and hurt feelings, I urge you to be brave enough to see it first and then decide. I’m talking to you, Basic Instinct spoilers. You know who you are!

Ultimately I come away from this film with more questions than conclusions. Why, I wondered, couldn’t those who were offended by The Boys in the Band laugh at it instead? How could they not appreciate the humor and wit of these characters, as they go from loving to hating each other and back again in a matter of drinks and hours? Then I found myself thinking, “Because, you spoiled little so-and-so, you can’t even begin to imagine the fear that festered inside certain members of a 1970s audience.” It’s 2015, and we’re in the early stages of a time when gay neighbors are becoming just neighbors and gay parents are just parents. It wasn’t just a different country when these boys came out; it was a different universe. Timing is everything, and when we take an objective, honest look at humanity, a single fact emerges – no one can be as emotionally mature as Freddy Krueger.

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Add The Boys in the Band to your queue.

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On the tip of my finger where most people have lines that run down to their palms, I have a microscopic circle of dots. Noticeable only to the officer who one day will book and fingerprint me for stalking Miss Minnelli, this tiny cluster is no more than one of those souvenirs that we all collect on our travels through childhood. It is a security blanket of a scar that makes my right arm tingle every time I tap the circle with my thumb.

My family’s first VCR was a beautiful, shiny, clunky piece of silver magic. Miraculous though it was, its true power bubbled inside a smaller device that pulled the videocassette strings. Possessing the remote control transformed any mere mortal into the master or mistress of the galaxy, capable of commanding with minimal finger movement that time moves forward with great speed or backwards with, well, slightly slower speed. Although highly discouraged due to the potential damage it may cause to the universe, time could be paused, but the seasoned VCR puppeteer knew it was prudent to stop time completely. No other period in my life since has granted me the ability to move forward with such ease and thoughtlessness. When I was the maestro of that machine, I could fast-forward and never look back . . . the enhancement of rewinding was still a thing of the future.

Addictive is that power behind the scenes, behind the curtain, above the stage, above the audience, in the wings, or in the editing room. When I managed to gain control of the Kit Kat-sized remote, I sat directly across from the television, prepared to make godlike decisions that came with such a coveted position. On the tip of my (yes, MY) remote control was a half-dome out of which the rays of world domination and channel change came shooting. For hours I would press my fingertip against that dome, my body connecting to and channeling the world of film and television. Over the years, that half-dome of the remote control rearranged the map of my right hand, and forever I will walk this earth with a circle of circles on my index finger where lines ought to be. I have kept the existence of this scar to myself for decades, but now Liza’s handlers will know the distinguishing characteristic by which they can identify me.

This scar came to be with help from Pinocchio’s Christmas (1980), only half of which we had recorded on videocassette. Oddly I never questioned what happened to the rest of film; I accepted the version available as complete and enjoyed it throughout all four seasons of the year. Frequently I have insisted that Network (1976) is the most frightening film ever made, but now it is with embarrassment that I retract . . . without question, Disney’s film adaptation of Pinocchio (1940) should be rated NC-17. When approached delicately, many with whom I have spoken revealed pattern nightmares involving whales and ocean chase scenes. During these discussions, everyone’s face steadfastly maintains the maturity of an adult, while their dewy eyes plead with me to change the subject.

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Indeed Disney’s sequence with Monstro the Whale is petrifying for all ages, but when it comes to film, the most damaging trauma inflicted upon me – or maybe the second most damaging, after Annie’s Miss Hannigan – occurred on Pleasure Island. Oh, the trauma of Pleasure Island. The cries and shrieks of little boys as they watch their hands devolve into donkey hooves . . . my respiratory rate just increased writing those words, hence a spirited need for the tamer, made-for-television Pinocchio’s Christmas. Aired during both the season and year of my birth, the plot of this 50-minute flick is simple, and the frights are minimal: after Papa Geppetto gives young Pinocchio an arithmetic book as an early Christmas present, the little marionette decides to sell his present and use the money to buy something in return for generous caregiver. The fox and the cat, the harebrained villains of the tale, convince Pinocchio to bury the money in the Enchanted Forest, where it will grow into a money tree. Alas! the tree never appears, the money disappears, and Pinocchio sells himself to a puppet show as a live marionette, where he can earn enough money to buy Geppetto the present he deserves. After he steals a female wooden doll from the show and runs away with her, Pinocchio faints in the Enchanted Forest when a mystical blue light comes floating his way. It is here where our VHS cuts off, demanding I go through pre-Internet life pondering this Christmas cliffhanger.

The holidays can be a difficult time for everyone, especially children of the 80s.

Some childhood scars never fade, their deep-rooted impact always at and on our fingertips. But with remedial treatment of Pinocchio’s Christmas, perhaps the donkey tails never sprouted; the donkey ears never developed; the hooves never manifested, and gradually the cries and shrieks of naughty little boys fade away in the distance.

Happy holidays!

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The battle between laugh-lined adults like myself and their inner child with its flawless skin is at its most predictable on October 31st. This unblemished child begs us to play dress-up and try on modified versions of our personalities that otherwise we keep hidden throughout the year. Hardly a day goes by when I’m not tempted to break out my witch hat and wear it around the neighborhood, so I understand the satisfaction garnered from disappearing into another character’s mind and body for 24 hours. I lived in costume for the first decade of my life, so Halloween was never the special green light holiday that is was for everyone else, permitting extravagant wardrobe choices without the fear of judgment (okay, I do judge the “Sexy Mustard Bottle” people, but just a little). Instead Halloween was simply a day that I didn’t get asked, “So who are you today?” I can still hear the pompous tone that dripped from a relative’s voice when he asked me that question at every family function . . . fortunately we were never forced to gather together to celebrate Halloween, or I may have hit him with my broom.

The red makeup of past Halloweens still lingered on my shower curtain. Its glue somehow still had the strength to keep a silver eye jewel posted proudly on my bathroom medicine cabinet. And that black leather tie purchased only for the purposes of a Halloween costume found itself into the regular rotation. Surrounded by this mini-museum of Halloween personalities, my core began to shake. The pressure was building in my toes and advancing towards my eyeballs. Something new was about to erupt, and my lack of control was both frightening and intriguing.

A few party invitations had come my way, but they remained in my Inbox, unopened. As October evolved into a month-long celebration of baseball, Halloween, and public drunkenness, San Francisco overflowed with a sea of pleasure-seeking hooligans. “Throw a stone; hit a Mr. Hyde” became the town motto, while back at my laboratory, it was a poor, suppressed Jekyll striving to burst from within me. The white-collar shirt was pressed; the grey tie with its pale red stripes met the belt of the black trousers; a maroon cardigan and a long, black overcoat guarded against the cold that still hovered after the day’s rain. The most petrifying costume of my years frightened only one person, and he was staring back at me in the mirror – this year I dressed up as an adult for Halloween. At times Dr. Jekylls may feel unwelcome in this city, but no matter; I was taking him to the Symphony.

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The stage was completely bare, save for the tremendous organ that was front and center. Had I looked closer at the website when I purchased my ticket, I would have noticed that the evening’s film was not to be accompanied by the entire San Francisco Symphony but by only one man and his organ. And yes, had I looked closer, I would have used the word “only” with a bit of an eye roll, a disrespectful snafu over which my cheeks redden when I think about it now. Indeed it was but one individual who sat below the movie screen at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco that Halloween night. Who knew that inside one man lurks the mystical power of many? After a grand overture that included “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the nostalgically rambunctious Giants fans, I sat mesmerized for 80 minutes, as organist Todd Wilson danced alone with John Barrymore.

Music truly functions as the railroad tracks of silent film. The actors may board the train looking impeccable with their black eye makeup and perfectly pursed lips, but without the music, that train would have nowhere to go. First published in 1886, Robert Louis Stevenson’s novella, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, found its way to the large and small screens as well as the stage and radio. In 1932 Fredric March received an Academy Award for his portrayal of the curious doctor; in 2007 James Nesbitt frightened BBC fans in the miniseries adaptation that followed Dr. Jekyll’s only living descendent; and in 1920 John Barrymore stepped into the man’s . . . um, men’s shoes. And goodness, that Barrymore face was a natural treasure. During Jekyll’s first transition into Hyde, the makeup was minimal, relying on the actor’s ability to do his job and do it well. The screen time for both hair and makeup increased as did Hyde’s, and title cards guided those audience members who were less familiar with the story. Surprises were in store for those around me, and I recalled the Symphony’s performance of Psycho (1960), when I found myself gasping at the gasps of the audience. Apparently my Jekyll is a tad snooty when it comes to old movies.

Captivating are Barrymore and his title cards, with their deliciously evil illustrations, but it was the mood swings of the live organ on stage that brought these characters to life. Perfectly timed to the movements of each actor, the ripples and shakes of Mr. Wilson’s organ emerged faultlessly as improvised, allowing every shadow hiding behind every corner the opportunity to jump out at his audience during their most Jekyllish moments. As I sat hypnotized by every moment of the film and its organ escort, perhaps a couple of temporary laugh lines became permanent, as my Jekyll cackled at his escape into the darkness of the theatre, an escape from the Hydes outside dancing down the streets.

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Time goes by so slowly . . . at least this week. In a few days one of my closest of the close friends flies in to join me at my beloved San Francisco Symphony. Once again I took the liberty of freelancing for the Symphony’s marketing department and convinced an out-of-towner to join me on my third viewing of The Wizard of Oz (1939). Convinced that someone should write a children’s book about our friendship, my friend and I constantly exchange movie quote texts and articles from The Huffington Post that put a “cheer up, Charlie” spin on our days, hiding the deep sadness that life has put 1,500 miles between our cities of residence. Yes, we measured; we’re that close.

Showing up on my Internet machine recently was an article posted by a publisher that I happen to work with during my nine to fiver. Although I could appreciate both its style and content, deep inside of me was the ornery old businessman who stubbornly kept my mind in the office. This grumbly old man refused to let down the work wall and appreciate a clever little article about Mary Poppins and her former employer. In place of humor, the sight of the publisher’s name only fueled my fury over how habitually they missed deadlines for the selling season on which my team was already working. I began to wonder how on earth I would be able to slot their titles into a Children’s catalog that has already been paginated or how many months it would be until they sent cover images that we could feed to Amazon and Barnes & Noble. From a harmless article sent to me with the best and most loving of intentions, I felt nothing but work frustration – the flower in my lapel had been torn and withered in my coat. My top hat had been punched and placed back on my head. Over time I had let this publisher turn me into Mr. Banks.

Ever close your eyes in an attempt to banish a thought from your mind? It doesn’t work.

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The story of P. L. Travers and her frustrated efforts of transitioning Mary from page to screen have become well known through the film Saving Mr. Banks (2013), for which Emma Thompson should have received an Oscar nomination. Yes, that evening I would have sent Cate Blanchett home with the gold for Blue Jasmine (2013), but a Thompson nomination was deserved and would have been kindhearted of the Academy. Seriously, bring the Kleenex for that ending. I am no expert on the history of Ms. Travers and Mr. Disney’s relationship, so I can’t speak to the film’s accuracy, but for me it provides a broad background for those who are unfamiliar with Disney’s struggle for a film adaptation. An added bonus was Emma Thompson’s Travers finding Tom Hanks as irritating as I do these days, hence my ruffled Oscar feathers. If you have never seen Mary Poppins (1964), first please send me your parents’ phone number so I can have a little chat with them – and don’t give me that “we didn’t rot our brains with television” hogwash – and then please stop reading. The ending of Mary Poppins is an incredibly sensitive subject for those of us who idolized both the character and the actress that sang her to life. You have been given your spoiler alert, and you may now choose for yourself. I’ll be here when you get back, and Mary, who celebrated her 50th anniversary this year, certainly isn’t going anywhere. Why would she leave? What possible reason would Mary have for abandoning us?

Let us begin with the end. Mary Poppins (1964) was the first unhappy ending to crawl across my screen and slap me with the cold, cruel hand of disappointment. Mary arrives gracefully dancing on the wind like she owns it and breathes both life and magic into the Banks household. Successively Mr. Banks becomes a devoted father and husband; his children, with the help of Mary and Bert, come to have a new understanding of their father’s demons; and Mrs. Banks . . . well . . . no major changes for Sister Suffragette, but her daughter’s daughters will adore her. Happiness could not possibly reach greater heights for the Banks clan in the film’s finale, while, only a few blocks away, Mary prepares to open her umbrella and fly over the kites of familial love that decorate the London skies. To rational adults and perhaps the more mature younger viewers, this ending is indeed a happy one, as a family is united, a father’s cold heart is melted, and otherwise ignored children are flooded with the love of now attentive parents. As an inarticulate six-year-old, all I could think is, “Happy shmappy.”

My blue umbrella had a handle that somewhat resembled a cat (or was a squirrel?), and in no way did that shade of 80s blue couple with the purple plastic beach bag in which I placed a scarf, a hand mirror, and Mom’s black pumps with the little bows. I would not have the guts to wear red until I was out of college, so the scarf was a blue that absolutely conflicted with the umbrella, but no matter – I knew what my $1.99 drag queen outfit represented, and with no competition surrounding me, not only was I secure and confident in my Poppins accouterments, I also had no misgivings of Mary’s guaranteed approval, if only she could see me. However strong my devotion to wardrobe and attempt at mimicking the elegant accent of Ms. Julie Andrews, alas I could not change the course of events. A happy family, a mended kite, an outraged umbrella head – this extraordinarily powerful woman who donned the sass of a villain but the hat of a hero had changed the winds and left the Banks children forever. I’m sorry . . . she what?!? I should have dressed up as that umbrella head, since I agreed with his every word. If I had been more athletic, I just may have thrown my cat umbrella handle (good gravy, or was it a squirrel?) at the television. Choosing their parents over the woman who took their hands and jumped into chalk drawings? The woman who led and won a carousel horse race? The woman who chaperoned tea parties on the ceiling and a chimney-sweep dance party on the roofs on London? That’s gratitude for you, but that’s as it should be – those magical people who float into our lives and change us for the better may one day catch the next wind that takes them 1,500 miles away. But if we’re lucky, the very thought of them makes us smile and laugh at inappropriate moments, slaying the grumbly old man inside us.

Only minutes ago, as I watched Michael yell “Now!” while Mr. Banks tossed the mended kite into the sky, I felt the flower in my lapel perk up slightly, perhaps absorbing a tear or two. I can’t say for sure, but it feels like the winds are changing.

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Academy Awards for Mary Poppins (1965): Best Actress in a Leading Role, Best Original Song (“Chim Chim Cher-ee”), Best Original Score, Best Film Editing, Best Special Visual Effects

Add Mary Poppins to your queue.

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“Poor Bogie.” Those were my first thoughts on that gloomy Tuesday afternoon when the Hollywood sign must have lost its balance, if just for a moment. The great Lauren Bacall has died at the age of 89, and despite my love for and devotion to this hypnotic talent and beauty of a woman, I felt immediate heartache for her husband, who died 57 years ago. My benevolent concern for Mr. Humphrey Bogart and his new status as a widower was momentary, and as I realized Bogie was probably okay with the situation, I was able to smile on an afternoon when, frankly, I feared I was about to break my “no crying at work” rule. I’ve trained myself pretty well – the dam was up and held steadily as I gathered together my meager belongings and took off a few minutes early to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . bake a cake for Bogart. I had some leftover matzo ball soup in the fridge that’s always better the next day; maybe he would enjoy that.

A dinner night with me is a surefire way to go home with at least one old movie recommendation. I’m delighted when the next dinner comes around and friends admit to me that they never knew so many lines came from Casablanca (1942). Other text messages arrive during their first viewing of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), shocked and disturbed that a black-and-white film could go to such dark and evil levels of the human psyche. Some are tickled more by “As Time Goes By” than by dead rats on a silver platter; others just the opposite, and I’m grateful for all the schmaltzy saps and sickos who invite me to dine with them.

On many a dinner I’ve made the pitch for Dark Passage (1947) as much I have for The Lion in Winter (1968) or All About Eve (1950), but I don’t believe I’ve succeeded yet in making a sale. I remember watching an interview with someone who described Bogie and Bacall’s third movie together as, “not a great film but a good film.” Perhaps one of the first times a movie audience witnessed a woman rescuing a man (who else but Lauren Bacall?), Dark Passage follows the journey of an escaped convict and those who help him on his odyssey out of San Francisco. True, I’m not holding a grudge against the Academy for ignoring this one, and it’s not a film you want to watch with that person in your life who moans “Oh, yeah right!” (you just thought of a name, didn’t you?). But trust me, a classic doesn’t have to be an upturned nose of a “Claaaaassic,” and if DVDs wear out from being overplayed, soon I’ll have to buy a new copy of this one.

A treacherous little filming technique at the time, the first hour of Dark Passage is shot almost completely from Humphrey Bogart’s point of view, allowing us to see Lauren Bacall just as he sees her. His hands become ours, as we light her cigarette from across the table; we hide behind her in an elevator, just a few inches from her face; when we all wake up after hiking the hills and staircases of the San Francisco streets, her masterpiece of a face is the first to come into focus. Here we enjoy Bacall as we always have and always will, but we’re also granted the privilege of seeing her through Bogie’s eyes, and, if only for a moment, loving her with Bogie’s love. As the fog of sadness began to lift last night, Dark Passage became the very cake and soup that I felt Bogie so desperately needed.

Thank you, Betty Perske. Thank you, Lauren Bacall. We’re so grateful that the two of you met.

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