Happy New Year, Possums!

I suppose it's inevitable that after the festivities and distractions of the last few weeks - the race through Christmas toward the new year - that there might be something of a lull this first weekend of January. Well, I can't think of a more bracing tonic for the post-holiday blues than a while spent in the high-wire company of everybody's favorite Housewife Megastar.

Goodnight, Schatze...

I hate weeks when I have to quote Shakespeare more than once:

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies 

A lass unparallel'd...

I won't lie to you, kids - this one hurts.

The Same Old Story...

...and it really was a tale of love and glory.  Four was the charm for Bogie, and 20-year-old Betty Perske found herself, at 20, embarked on a marriage that completed her transition into Lauren Bacall.  They were two radically different people, at totally different times in their lives, but they made something that for many - in terms of intensity, devotion, and sheer charisma - stands as one of the marriages against which others can be measured.

For them, the old trope about Astaire and Rogers ("he  gave her class; she gave him sex") morphs into something like "he gave her wry; she gave him warm."  Together, whenever we see them together, they give us a particularly potent form of star power.

And it all happened today, May 21, in 1945.  I'm glad the bride is still with us, and I hope she knows, no matter what the future brings, just what she meant and means, as time goes by.

Birthday Girl: Last Dame Standing

I'm posting late today - one of those days; don't ask.  When I saw her picture scattered around some of my favorite destinations, I thought, oh, no - not that, too.  But no, it's not - it is instead her birthday.  Lauren Bacall is 88 today.

Somewhere, packed away in a box that's nailed into a crate that's been sitting for a decade and more in a storage space Somewhere on the East Coast, if I'm lucky, there's a microcassette (remember them?) that I saved out of an answering machine (remember them?) from 'round about 1989.  On it, among I'm sure many utterly forgotten dates and appointments and crank calls and Lord knows what all, is the first call I ever missed from Miss Bacall.  If memory serves, it was about changing the time that a car was to pick her up.  I must have played that message a hundred times or more, to myself and to friends, marveling that Lauren Bacall had dialed my phone number and left a message.

I will tell you the truth:  I knew her for a year or two, at the level that she would have known my name and probably thought I was a pretty good, get-things-done sort of person of the sort who are plentiful in lives like hers.  And never, ever in that time, was she anything but great.  A Star, absolutely, and conscious of it - but why shouldn't she be?  She earned it.  She did her job, and she was damn good at it, and for one reason and another - not least among them the amount it cost to live like Lauren Bacall, the Widow Bogart, Star - she did it for a very long time, possibly for a long while after she really wanted to.  I was always more than a little in awe of her, in ways that I wasn't with some of the other Great Ladies I got to know in one way or another.

I'm glad she's still here, and I hope she knows that still she's on a very, very short list of the best: a real New Yawk lady, staunch in her progressive politics, loved, admired, loyal, hardworking, and, I can attest, even at 7:30 in the morning in the rain, beautiful beyond belief.

When she really does go, we shall not see her like again.

Movie Night

So, we're back from our little jaunt, and as always after the flash of Dubai, it's nice to be home and lovely to be with the dogs.

A highlight of this trip turned out to be just staying in, as we spent the first part largely in the hotel for the end of Ramadan and then enjoyed that so much (we got upgraded and lolled about in splendor) that aside from a brief mall jaunt we hardly stirred - even passing up a night out dancing with the boys.

The temptations to be even more than usually sedentary were some of the usual suspects - our favorite hotel has a splendid indoor pool, a killer spa, and an open bar from 6 'til 9 - but also one more:  they now get TCM, and we lucked into a fun run of pictures.  It's pretty inexcusable, I know, after what's probably something in the low three figures of viewing, to spend prime vacation time watching The Wizard of Oz, but on a big screen in a decadently comfortable hotel drawing room, why carp?  Besides, Mr. Muscato's only seen it a few times, so we had some reason to be so lazy.  And you know what?  It never fails, in any way, to entertain.

That was good (as was a welcome rescreening of What's Up, Doc?, another never-fail favorite), but in addition we saw two movies in a row that really got me thinking. 

The first, as you might have guessed from the picture above, was Key Largo, which I'd seen before but really enjoyed, as I did on this second viewing.  It's a tense, atmospheric, weird picture, driven by an over-the-top performance by Edward G. Robinson as a high-strung gangster and, at the other extreme, by turns by Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall that are so low-pitched that at times they seem to be standing perfectly still while the movie whirls around them.  They are tremendously effective, and I'm baffled by people who say that of their pictures together, this one has the least chemistry between them.  Their connection is the moral foundation of the movie, and while it's less flashy than the incredibly seductive To Have and Have Not, it's rock-solid.  Never in the movies have two so different people been so ineluctably right for each other, and they play the whole movie as if they know that, even when the rest of the world collapses around them.

As it nearly does when the hurricane hits.  Each of the characters suffers a kind of Dark Night during the prolonged storm sequence, but the greatest glory in it goes to the lady above, the incomparable Claire Trevor.  She plays Gaye Dawn, a faded nightclub chantoozie whose name at first seems a cruel joke - until, in the end, it becomes prophetic, for despite her desperate, destructive love for Robinson, her dipsomania, and her essential foolishness (summarized brilliantly by the tacky jewelry she wears like some sort of penance for getting older) she saves the day, and brings a happy morning after the storm.

So that was the good half of our impromptu double feature.  When I saw that the next movie was the 1976 A Star is Born, I was kind of jazzed.  I'd never seen it, believe it or not, as it came out just before I could have been allowed to see what was widely believed to be a racy film, and then its critical drubbing more or less removed it from consideration.

I'd like to report that I found it to be a lost gem, a worthy fellow for the versions by Constance Bennett, Janet Gaynor, and Judy Garland.  It's not.  It's not dreck, exactly, but it's awfully close.  No, I take that back - it is dreck:  endlessly long, excruciatingly paced, laughably staged, portentous and pretentious and utterly humorless.  It's hard to imagine that only four years separate the Barbra who was so effortlessly Judy Maxwell in What's Up, Doc? and the impassive, self-enchanted creature who walks through A Star is Born like it was a series of wardrobe stills for its misbegotten fashions (she spends what seems like hours in a knee-length white cardigan-over-bell-bottoms that made me want to throw things at the screen, while material success is represented by a series of increasingly flashy gypsy-style outfits that Rhoda Morgenstern wouldn't have been caught dead in with her eyes gouged out).  And let's not even start on Kris Kristofferson and how very much he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, or the pointless series of cartoon bit parts for people like Gary Busey as a manipulative manager or the two unfortunate actresses who play Barbra's first-reel pals, whose roles are so exiguous that they are billed only as One and Two.  They're black, you see; fledgling-star Barbra's in a group with them.  It's called the Oreos.  Get it?  That, in fact, is the high point of funny in A Star is Born.  I rest my case.

What struck me about seeing these two pictures together is how simple Warner Bros. made Key Largo seem, and what obvious, lumbering, all-too-visible and ultimately crushing labor went into A Star is Born.  The former tells its story - nothing less than the rise and fall of its characters' souls - with essentially one set, a few not-terribly-convincing models for the storm sequence, and a short stretch on a boat.  It moves like the wind, without a moment's padding or wasted action.  Even a sequence that another script would have turned into a throwaway number, in which Trevor's Gaye helplessly displays the ruins of her voice by singing "Moanin' Low" in a sad bid for a promised drink, turns out to illuminate the character of every person in the room. 

By contrast, A Star is Born feels like nothing but padding, from the endless helicopter shots meant to awe one at the size of Kristofferson's audience to the whip-round of his Hollywood mansion that felt longer than Jackie Kennedy's tour of the White House.  Even Streisand's songs - theoretically, one would have thought, a prime reason for a Streisand Star is Born to exist - feel bloated and unnecessary.  And that's once you get past the movie's major implausibility:  unlike previous Norman Maines and Esther Blodgetts (the names are changed here, one suspects to protect the innocent, but the characters are more or less the same), the two leads have nothing at all in common including the métiers in which they perform.  Kristofferson's character is meant to be a sort of Jim-Morrison-if-he-had-lived, a full-on rockstar with a kind of grandeur in his desperate excess (that he's played by a singer/actor of middling repute and vestigial screen charisma doesn't help).  Streisand's songbird is a middle-of-the-road pop act at most.  It's as if Jimi Hendrix decided to throw it all away to save the career of Helen Reddy or Rita Coolidge (who actually makes a throwaway cameo as a Grammys presenter).  And it goes on and on, and finally it's over, and you find yourself sitting there in the dark wondering, "What the hell was she thinking with that pantsuit?"

Claire Trevor for the win.

When Worlds Collide

So we're sitting home tonight, Mr. Muscato and I, watching that award-handing-out thingummy that y'all back there in civilization caught last night. Mostly what I'm thinking is, "Hmmm. Not all that interesting, the current crop of WAMPAS Baby Stars, are they?" Also, "What is George Clooney on and where can I get some?"

But they just did the criminally short bit assigned to this year's honorary award winners, and all I could do when presented with the spectacle of Lauren Bacall standing next to Roger Corman, the two of them being ovated by All Hollywood, was imagine what she was thinking: "What the f*** am I doing standing next to this hack, the Putz of Poverty Row? I've survived pictures from To Have and Have Not to Dogville - and he produced Attack of the Giant Leeches."

But he's thinking all "Yeah, whatever, Mrs. Bogie. At least I didn't make The Mirror Has Two Faces."

Propping up the Bar

I wasn't there, of course, and so can't be entirely certain, but I'm going to guess that this little group was snapped sometime not too early in the evening. Not too late, of course - they're all still presentable - but in that sometimes dangerous stretch when everyone is still more or less coherent, but it's not at all clear that things are going end well.

Miss Kendall, for example, would appear to have had just about enough of whatever it is Miss Bacall is going on about, and there's something ominous in Viv's (surprisingly jowly) look of discontent. Were I Noël Coward, I might suddenly remember an appointment, or perhaps claim to spy poor Princess Margaret all on her ownsome on the other side of the pub. However charming, individually, the ladies involved, this is one conversation from which the getting is good.

The Perfect Blendship

I'm especially fond of pictures of Judy - and there are many - with her friends. They tend to be taken at times that reinforce the mantra one hears from so many people who knew her: that at least some of the time, and often much of the time, she had a wonderful time. That's somehow comforting.

Of course - this being Judy - it also stirs up feelings quite opposite, ones that dwell on the special sadness of someone who knew and was adored by everyone interesting in the whole world who still managed to squander all that and die alone, sharing a house with someone who, by comparison, she barely knew.

One can also marvel at the idea that one of these remarkable creatures is still with us. Images like this seem as much ancient history as if they were of Jenny Lind, David Garrick, and Lillie Langtry.

Women on the Verge

...Of serious and major transformations:

Into a predatory insect, for example.

I had a boss once who'd been Susan Cabot's roommate once when they both trying to Make It There - now there's a Terrible Hollywood Story. Susan's, that is, not my boss's (she ended up in Mexican movies and married a Philadelphia socialite, so some things do work out for the best).

I've never heard of a blonde voodoo priestess in a strapless cocktail gown, but maybe it's just that that makes her Weird. Go ask Lon Chaney - if anyone would know, it's he...

Never having had the nerve to see this one, I had no idea that the twin-concept imposed on Miss Garbo involved playing a lady baseball player and a truck driver in drag. No wonder Melvyn Douglass looks so surprised.

That Kind of Woman is apparently the kind who ditches her picture hat, pearls, and gloves at the first opportunity to kiss a GI.

Given that the kissee is Tab Hunter, he probably went home with the accessories, not the Woman. Although if you're ever going to make an exception for anyone, Sophia Loren is pretty much the choice to go with.

The terrifying story of a woman whose Guilty Secret appears to have consisted of wanting to imitate Margaret Hamilton's makeup. Actually, if all you had to choose between was George Sanders and Louis Hayward, you'd probably be Strange, too. But not, I hope, green - even on La Lamarr, it's not terribly flattering.

As opposed to being a Cobra, which proved enormously successful for Miss Montez. Everyone knows this particular Woman picture...

But even I hadn't known it had a sequel, of sorts...

...not to mention a blatant stealing of the concept (if not, if this poster's any evidence, the fabulousness). I don't really want to imagine what kind of horror Snake Woman can spread with her forked tongue.

I suspect that, for poor Jean Harlow, having to go red was almost as bad as having to go Wasp or Cobra. Ginger just doesn't go with white satin bias-cut gowns the way platinum does, after all. Especially when the most you hope to impress is Chester Morris, who isn't exactly Clark Gable, if you know what I mean. But then again, if you listen to Carole Lombard, even Clark Gable wasn't exactly Clark Gable.

They certainly don't seem to make many pictures about Women turned into cute, fluffy creatures, do they? No Bunny Woman, Panda Woman, or West Highland Terrier Woman; oh, no - it's all snakes and cobras, wasps and - possibly least inviting of all - leeches. Bleech. No wonder Coleen Gray retired. And how did an ex-Mr. Joan Crawford turn up in this?

Acquanetta! The greatest star ever named after an off-prime grooming-product brand. It's nice to know that she rated special billing, although I don't think there was much question in that cast who would be appearing "as The Jungle Woman," really, is there?

From the Jungle to the Front Page; it certainly can't be argued that Hollywood's Woman didn't get around.

Never in a million years did Davis have gams like that. Maybe she borrowed them from Susan Cabot.

Another stint in the urban jungle, this time with not one but two formidable Women, even if only one made it up above the title. And no, children, this was not the inspiration for the Dixie Carter-Delta Burke (et al) television series.

After all these turbid goings-on, invisibility seems like a relief, a sentiment likely not shared by Virginia Bruce. It was never a terribly interesting film career, and it's all downhill from there. Although even she never had to play a Leech.

The Mrses. Bogart

First up - Miss Helen Menken

A brief detour; number two, Miss Mary Philips

Three was not the charm - Miss Mayo "Sluggy" Methot

And finally, he gets it right.

Remarkably, #2 (otherwise almost startlingly obscure) may have been, classically speaking, even more lovely than #4.

Sold Out

Well, well, well. Who knew?

Low-rent spokesperson deals have been part of her career since the very beginning! If you embiggen, you'll see that the bottom photo shows you just how thrilled she is about the whole thing.

Pola, Schatze, and Loco

I have to admit: when I first moved to New York, I considered How to Marry a Millionaire something of a user's guide to the city. It's so practical!

These days, I just find myself murmuring the director's name as a kind of soothing mantra: Jean Negulesco, Jean Negulesco, Jean Negulesco...

A Word from our (Downmarket) Sponsor

I can just hear the negotiation on this one:

"Okay. As long as it's voiceover only, and at no point does she have to imply - in any way - that she actually eats the stuff..."

I'd file this under "Lo How the Mighty Have Fallen," but actually Miss. B. has always been remarkably straightforward that she's a working actress with bills to pay. The Dakota doesn't come cheap, kiddies...

Stagy Ladies

Just a coupla Broadway babies, yukking it up at yet another Marvelous Party.

I have to give it up for Carol - she's the only person I've ever seen whose chasm-wide grin always seems absolutely unaffected. As for Betty B. - well, she's got the Great Lady act down, cold, although sometimes it looks like she'd rather be somewhere else. Like at the bar.

Different Worlds

I've said it before, I'll say it again: what do you suppose they talked about?