Fragile Industries

Oscar '08: *yawn* and memorable years past

(Sorry for absence, I got that amusing flu that wasn't blocked by the flu shot.  Three weeks and an expensive course of antibiotics for the following bronchitis later, I'm about 90% functional, and can again operate a keyboard.  I have photos to illustrate the parties described below, but scanning the non digital pics is currently beyond me.  Give me a week.)

I'm kinda known as The Oscar Kid by people who have been around for a while.  On Sunday, I received several long-distance calls to note the occasion.  I only wish that this year, so different from years previous, had a shred of its former excitement.

In my former life, I gave an annual Oscar party.  This went on for about a dozen years and grew in complexity and lavishness.  The first was a simple potluck and phone invite to about a dozen friends, because I was amazed that San Francisco did not recognize what I, as a Hollywood native, knew: the Academy Awards Presentation was the most important day of the year.  It was a felony not to see the nominated films and hold strong opinions within the greater LA area on the nominations.  To my surprise, the Hollywood-phobic San Franciscans loved it and the party was a great success.

It soon became my signature, the Hollywood exile's tribute.  It was always an ironic event, I had enough distance from my upbringing to realize that all that glitz and self-congratulation and bad musical tributes were more fun to laugh at than take seriously.  True to the manic side of my bipolar nature, the party escalated over the next few years and residences and I reached ever higher levels of obsession and size, with about 40-60 guests a year.  There were certain constants to the party: a television in every room (including bathrooms) which required a lot of borrowing.  In the middle years in the loft, which was basically one huge room and a bathroom, I created smaller viewing areas, each with its own television.  One year, for the sake of togetherness, I reconfigured all furniture so the loft became one enormous theater and spent a fortune on the rental of The Largest TV Screen Ever Built (but the bathroom still had its own.  There was No Escape.)  Also constant were handmade invitations, a contest with Fabulous Prizes for guessing the winners (and eventually a series of prizes including the You'll Never Make It In Show Biz prize for least correct guesses), a comic voting ballot for the contest (sometimes I spent more time writing jokes for the ballot than the entire Writers' Guild, combined, did for the broadcast) a huge poster for guests to nominate the winners of the evening in categories of their own devising (e.g.: Worst Toupee, Most Obviously Intoxicated, Worst Dressed, Worst Acceptance Speech), and lots and lots and lots of food served on a groaning buffet with multiple courses, with a drinks outpost and scattered nibble stations.

One area was always for the Oscar Die-Hards, those who really gave a damn about who won and wore what and thanked whom and so on.  Silence was observed in this zone.  The rest of the party was giggly mayhem, especially during the musical numbers when we all shouted rude things.  As hostess, I had far too much fun to pay attention, so I always taped the show (remember video?) and found out what happened the next day.  It was never as exciting as the party, though the year Jack Palance did one-armed push-ups was probably a tie.  That was the Best Oscar Broadcast ever.  A good broadcast helps, but is not required, for the Best Oscar Party.

Food is about 75% of the reason to give a party, for me.  A good party should have about twice as much food as the number of guests can comfortably accommodate.  Occasionally, I'd invite people to bring either the hors' d'oeuvre or the desserts.  One year I got lazy and had it catered (the year of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and the best dim sum place in town supplied everything but the sweets).  Usually, though, it was a solo affair in the kitchen.  I cooked for days ahead, usually did not sleep the night before and scheduled days off from work before and after.  (Fortunately, my boss was an Oscar nut, loved the party, and totally supported my truancy.)  I had tasting parties for select friends ahead of time while I tested recipes.

It didn't end there, every possible party-giving aspect was manic. The custom invitations (at least 50 or so) were designed to a point of complexity that sometimes each cost several dollars in postage to send.  I dangled ornamentation from the ceiling (an advantage of loft living) to rival the balloons of the Macy's parade.  I bought out the Saturday wholesale flower mart for massive floral arrangements.  I ordered miniature chocolate, golden Oscars from the SF chocolatier who made them for the Academy's official post-Oscar party itself (he wasn't supposed to sell them retail, but I worked on it).  Costumes appeared frequently worn -- I appeared as Titanic one year complete with model steamship capsizing on my head (if you've ever seen Beach Blanket Babylon, it was on that scale, and my neck ached for days) and an ocean-print dress made from a shower curtain, covered with sewn-on plastic 3-D fish and icebergs.  The year Braveheart was nominated (the year of the Big Theater in the loft), Houston wore a full kilt get-up as tribute, and wore it well.  Houston never misses an opportunity to wear a skirt in public.  The only problem was that he sat at the edge of the "balcony" (my loft railing, which has no "modesty shield") facing downstairs, and, well, he sat like a guy.  Now we know what the Scotsman wears under the kilt! 

At first, my theme was simply Hollywood Excess (my party motto: take a theme and beat it to death) until one year where the excess and my obsession for control exceeded Martha Stewart's and my long suffering husband of that particular time frame threatened divorce (about 1996, I think).  So I focused my themes from then on, cut back in some areas, enlisted hubby's creative strain and the best ever was the Casablanca Oscars of 2002.  Casablanca is my Favorite Movie Of All Time and has its own blog post, and so that year was extra special.  The Oscar Parties staggered on for a year or two after, but the Casablanca party totally had the pops. 

We went Moroccan with a vengeance for the food and decor.  It was both delicious and beautiful.  Moroccan food is not difficult to cook, is perfect for large quantities, and its unique, vibrant and abundant flavor rivals any other nation's, including, dare I say, perennial favorites French and Italian.  I slavishly followed the bible of Moroccan cooking (over 30 years old and still in print, highly recommended) for multiple courses and multiple dishes for each course.  I bought every brass item available in thrift stores for weeks in advance so that all serving pieces and knick-knacks appeared North African.

By this time, we lived in a real house with rooms, and most of the rooms were tented in apricot silk (waiting for a drapery project that never happened) and other Moroccan-style prints and beads for a casbah feel. My father, whose history as a Bogie look-alike has been noted in previous posts, collected Bogart memorabilia, so I raided his stash and erected Casablanca posters and stills everywhere.   Elsewhere, I printed out poster sized renditions of great lines from the movie, (and there are a million, "Here's looking at you, kid,"  "This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," "I'm shocked, shocked!" etc.)  All the rooms had large placards naming them as memorable locations from the film. The drinks area was christened "The Blue Parrot" (Sidney Greenstreet's bar in the movie) and we created a turquoise-hued punch of the same name involving vodka, blue curacao, and champagne that tasted so innocuous and packed such a wallop that many taxis were called late in the evening.

The centerpiece of the decor, taking pride of place on the niche over the mantle, was an authentic Warner's production shooting script of Casablanca, courtesy of my dad, old and dog-eared and I wish I knew who it originally belonged to.  Next to my photo albums and cats, it's what I'd most regret losing in a house fire. For that desert ambiance in floral arrangement, I went with acres of dried and decorative grasses instead of flowers.  My future ex-husband became dreamy-eyed on a trip to the floral supply store and made several car-loads of purchases of big pots, palm branches, rocks, dried moss and enormous bamboo stalks with which he retreated into his workshop.  Mysterious power-tool noises were heard for hours, and he emerged with 7-foot tall and 4-foot wide potted palm trees.  They were scattered through the house along with 10 televisions, perhaps a record. 

The invitation of course had Bogie and Bergman on the cover and invited Casablanca-themed costumes. As a result, our guests represented nearly the entire cast, with two Inspector Renaults and men and women from 60 to 16 years old sporting Rick's white dinner jacket.  One friend, a highly skilled juggler, arrived as the juggler that appears for three seconds in the opening scene in the marketplace, and he juggled on demand for the entertainment of other guests (I'm not making this up.  Check "juggling in movies" list here.  Said guest is creator of the juggling site.)  I wore an absolutely spectacular caftan embroidered in gold.  My future ex, of course, wore his immaculate tux.  He was born to wear a tux.

The capper to the evening for the hardy 20 or so who stayed after the broadcast ended was a screening of the film Casablanca itself, complete with hookah and ample floor pillows.  We all shouted out dialog. Everyone cried at the end, even if we'd all seen it dozens of times before. 

All of this is by way of saying, the Academy Awards used to be a big deal for me.  It's funny, the things that come and go.  I used to also be a shoe nut, Sex In The City had nothing on me, I owned at least 150 pair, from Come Fuck Me Pumps to thigh-high dominatrix boots to vintage 40's boudoir slippers.  And not a single pair of athletic shoes, a point of pride.  I'm totally over it.  I own maybe 10 pair of shoes now, heavy in flip-flops, clogs and Converse hi-tops, and one single emergency pair of pumps.  And, I'm sad to say, I'm over the Oscars. I live several hundred miles closer to the Kodak Theater than I used to, but the vibe doesn't reach me.  The phone calls were sweet and well-intentioned but a reminder of things past.

I didn't even remember it was Oscar Sunday (formerly more holy than Easter Sunday) until the phone calls started.  OK, I was still half bronchial and groggy, but that's no excuse.   I ended up watching, drooling over red carpet fashions (very good this year) and then The Most Uneventful Oscars In History unfolded.  Not the most awful or awkward.  Sometimes that is a good thing, as horrible overlong thank you speeches given by people who speak Latvian are always amusing, or when the producers unroll dancing salutes to ___________ (fill in the blank for something really dumb), you can laugh at the dreadfulness of it.  In fact, there was a brief bit where they did joke montages of bad dreams, but it wasn't as funny because they were on to the joke.  That's no good, if they start playing irony.  That's my job.  I want to laugh at stuffy, self-important, self-referential Hollywood at its worst and most over the top. No, this was simply bland cubed, this was an Oscars with all the liveliness of CSPAN.  I might as well have been watching the public access coverage of the Bakersfield Zoning Board.  Obviously, I care more about the medium than the message.  I am pretty sure that this year, for the most part, the Academy voters got this right.  That has nothing to do with the entertainment factor in bestowing those honors.

I am hoping that this year's blandness is due to the writer's strike ending so close to the awards date.  The producers and participants didn't have time to be overwrought and unintentionally hilarious, they just had enough time to Broadcast The Fucker.  Feh.  Glad I wasn't hosting a party this year, I would have had to spike the punch with LSD and No-Doz to have had any fun at all.

Favorite Movie Lines -- A Semi-Regular Feature Revisited

"At last, my arm is complete!"

--- Sweeney Todd

Father's Day

My ex, about whom I have written with affection and bitterness, in equal measure, is dealing with his father's impending death.  He's going to go visit him during his final days.  This merely seems like common filial duty, but it involves a long trip to a foreign hellhole, and a ton of emotional baggage that must be checked at the gate, so to speak.  My thoughts are with him.  He never had a father figure in his life.  Life dealt me a different hand.  I had an overabundance of fathers.

I've posted a lot about my dad Tony.  I don't want to slight him today.  However, he's passed on for nearly six years, and wouldn't mind if I spent a little time talking about this guy.  Tony loved him too.

Uncle Hal

This is going to be an unapologetic paean of love.  The man had his faults and weaknesses, he was human, but not in my eyes as a child.  Even as an adult, looking at him with as unbiased a view as I can muster, given my adoration, I can't say that his sins were ever those that harmed anyone but himself.  That alone sets him apart from anyone I've ever met.

Professional history, with varying degrees of accuracy and detail: link #1 , link #2 , link #3, link #4, link # 5 , link #6 (and note that omitted from the list of cast members with whom he worked in that cinematic masterpiece "Crash Landing" is Nancy Davis, aka Nancy Reagan -- who at the time of filming, 1958 or so, was still widely known as "The Best Blow Job In Hollywood") , link #7 (which proves his international appeal) . . . etc. etc.  I've made my point. (Photo gallery to right courtesy of Spookytoms, with much gratitude.)

I've said it before, I come from a family of Z-List actors.  My parents, Hal, and his wife Ruth, toiled together in little theater years before I was born.  They eventually became best friends.  Childless, Ruth and Hal (when a toddler, I had a blanket name for them both: "Uncarootenhal") were anointed as my godparents, and took the job seriously. They were primary residents of the village that it took to raise this child.  After my parents divorced when I was quite young, Hal took it upon himself to visit me weekly, even after my mother remarried.  He never talked down to me, was never "too grown up" to happily join in whatever I wanted to do, was probably the only person whose love for me I never doubted, and vice versa. I learned more from him in an offhand way than nearly anyone else in my life.  There's too much for me to say about what he meant to me, and this isn't about me (well, of course it is, it is ALL about me, 24/7, it's my damn blog).

Hal was born in the piney woods of some backwater town in Georgia.  He got out early.  He was handsome as hell, tall, powerful, and was drawn to acting, after some stints as a boxer and, rumor has it, a moonshine runner.  He had a perfect deep baritone actor's voice, and lost the Georgia accent quickly (although he dipped into it when telling a joke or when he patiently read all the Brer Rabbit stories to me, with a different voice for each character.)  After his time in community theater, he did get some film and TV roles in the late 50's-early 60's.  Mostly in the rash of sci-fi-horror films of the time -- giant bugs, space invaders, zombies, you name it.  He was a good enough actor for classic theater (and I'm sure he would have preferred it), but he viewed his career with philosophical good humor.  Actors take what they can get. (That's Hal as lead zombie towards the bottom of the poster to the left.)

One acting story: he was on the studio lot for one of these roles at the same time Elvis was making a movie.  Hal's path to the parking lot at the end of the day took him past Elvis's trailer, and the King was leaning against it, bored.  Elvis called out a greeting, and Hal replied, lapsing back into a semi-Southern accent, instinctively, I suppose.  Recognizing another good old boy, Elvis invited him into the trailer for a conversation that lasted for nearly an hour, full of humor, memories of the South, and love of music (Hal played a passable guitar, Carl Perkins as a favorite).  Hal said there was no pretension to the man, in fact he seemed to genuinely appreciate Hal's own friendly, unpretentious nature.  They were two of a kind.  Elvis could have used a Hal in his life.

He was a wonderful, wise witty gentleman of the old school. Everyone, and I mean everyone, loved him from the moment they met him.  Even people who generally disliked all of humanity made exceptions for Hal.  Like many actors, he was secretly very shy, self-effacing, and more than a little insecure, I realize now.  But he was so charming and entertaining, both one-on-one or at parties, that everyone else in the room receded into the background.  His secret was how special he made you feel, which is the key to true charm.  (Hal is to the left, and my father to the right, of some actress in the photo to the right.)

Hal never went to college (a very poor background), but he was brilliant.  His favorite reading, which he would try to explain to me even as a child, was Civil War history and quite advanced works on physics, cosmology, and the higher reaches of mathematics.  I understood a little more as time went on, but when he got to theories of relativity and the search for the Unified Theory, he lost me.  When I was about 10, I had to write a science report on a topic of my choosing to read aloud to the class.  My first choice, "color" was rejected, which demonstrates my limited grasp of even what science was.  The only source available was Hal, and I remembered him talking about relativity, so I asked him to tell me about it.  As beads of sweat formed on his brow from the impossibility of the task, he essentially dictated a child-accessible description of Einstein, relativity, its proofs and effects.  I took it down verbatim, and actually understood it in a dim way at the time.  When I read it to the class, the silence was deafening.  Everyone, including the teacher, had the glazed-eyed expression that told me that I had just recited Swahili.  I got an A, I suspect because of its incomprehensibility to any layman, anyone not actually hearing Hal's version. ("Uncarootenhal" to the left.)

He was intensely loyal.  As I said, until I became a blase teenager, he visited me weekly (always greeting me by pressing his face to mine, nose to nose, eyes open, and exclaiming, "We're stuck!")  Some jokes are funny once.  Some are funny every time, and if it came from Hal, its humor was inexhaustible.  So we had an entire catalog of shared rituals, stories, jokes.   Even when I was in my impossible teens and despised all adults, his regular visits -- no longer overtly to spend time with me, but just a family visit -- I found a reason to hang out, casually, pretending to ignore everyone, but hanging on his every word.

I'm not revealing anything here by saying he adored my mother.  Their completely platonic love affair lasted nearly 50 years.  No one ever talked about it, but it was the world's most poorly kept secret.  Every childhood visit to me was concluded with several hours, and many drinks, with my mom.  They'd laugh, and drink and smoke and simply bask in their affection for each other.  None of their spouses were threatened.  It was chaste and pure and perfect.  It formed an ideal for me, and I think I have something similar with another friend, or I hope it can become an approximation. (Mom and Hal onstage during their theater days together to left and below right.)

He even tried to create with my little brother (half-brother, technically, my mother and her second husband's son) the same kind of relationship as he and I shared.  He largely succeeded, as Steven loved him with the same intensity I did, and to this day cannot talk about him without a crack of loss in his voice.  Steven chose a different path for his life, and I can't say what lessons he learned from Hal.  Still, I'm grateful for Hal's efforts with Steven.

Random memories:  Hal sitting on a tiny chair in my tiny playhouse (he was 6'2" and the ceiling on the playhouse was maybe 5 foot tops) pretending to eat with all due respect something I had concocted from mud, weeds and a few artfully placed pebbles (even before Martha Stewart, I knew presentation was everything).  A Halloween when I dressed up as a Beatle (back when they were cute mop-tops in black suits) and he plucked the Official Beatle Wig from my head and placed it on his own, picked up my play guitar, and sang "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah."  My mother has the photo of this, or it would be here for your enjoyment.  A full hour when we crouched together in the back yard, watching from beginning to end the process of a spider building its web, with his quiet commentary illuminating the remarkable beauty and complexity of nature even in its most common events.  That is possibly my favorite childhood memory.  Hal's tender, abashed, response when I asked him an appalling question.  I went through a period of questioning my paternity in my early 20's.  The most eligible (and hoped for) candidate was Hal.  After liquoring myself up for courage, and him for in vino veritas, I asked him if he was my biological father.  He did not flinch, but blushed, and said softly, "I'm not, honey, but I wish I was."

I filled the role of daughter for him and Ruth; family is largely what we make it.

His last years saw a frightening decline in health.  There's no question that he was an alcoholic (of the kind that simply grew a little quieter and unsteady, never loud, abusive or foolish) all his life.  He constantly smoked unfiltered Chesterfields (but in a rakish holder, one of his few vanities).  By the time he was 65 or so, it caught up with him.  The robust, physically magnetic man shrank, the voice became weak, his mind remained sharp, but his presence was so much smaller, the hidden insecurities and shyness now visible.  It was painful to see.  I was young enough (mid-20's) and callow and stupid enough to avoid him.  It hurt too much and I couldn't muster the decency to push aside my feelings, to stop taking and start giving.  In terms of karma, it worked out.  My shame in deserting Hal gave me the strength to stand by my father during his last years, and his own sad descent into Alzheimer's.

He eventually developed lung cancer.  I had lived in San Francisco for several years by that time and had seen him rarely during that time.  It was inoperable, terminal, and quick.  My mother called to give me the news, and reported that he wanted no visitors or calls, he wanted to go with dignity and not leave anyone with memories of his difficult end.  I could not let him leave the earth without trying to express what he meant to me.  I wrote a letter, something along the lines of this post, but shorter, more to the point, and full of all those old in-jokes we shared.  Ruth, his widow-to-be, remained at his bedside in the hospital, and a few days before he slipped into a coma, she received the letter.  She read it to him.  He asked it to be repeated several times, and according to Ruth, tears rolled down his cheeks.  He then asked her to put it under his pillow, where it remained until he died shortly thereafter.

Hal, I hope there is a heaven full of wonders for you, spiders building webs, audiences cheering your Shakespearean performances, endless golf games, many children of all ages with whom to share your gifts, large frosty glasses of bourbon and branch that never make you ill, and when it's my time, I hope with all my heart I join you there.

Happy Father's Day.

Living in Narnia

The following is a recycling of a comment I made on the blog of my pal Riannan over at In The Headlights.  She had just seen the Narnia movie and I got so carried away in my response that I figured my comment was really a blog post in its own right.

The Chronicles of Narnia are my absolute favorite books, hands down. (Which reminds me, I need to add them to the sidebar of Recommended Reading on the left.) C.S. Lewis was a brilliant, personally eccentric man who is the only "Christian" writer I can stomach. He came to religion after devout atheism through a rigorous intellectual process that concluded with the realization that the intellect cannot meet all human needs.

The Narnia stories were first read to me by my grandmother, who adored Lewis. She softpedaled any religious allegory, but mentioned casually that Aslan the lion could be seen as a kind of god. The books then were the first non-picture books I read on my own, the pump having been primed, so to speak.

I know the debate continues about their relationship to Christianity, even though Lewis denied it. (Except see the article here where he recants that denial in a letter to a 10-year-old fan.)  The fact remains that Aslan, and his role in the stories, is the most accessible vision I have of a Higher Power. There is a childlike immediacy to the spirituality in the stories that completely avoids moralizing or the orthodox claptrap of religion.

Regardless, they are peerless adventure stories enjoyable at any age, with a sly wit.

Lewis's adult works include an adult sci-fi novel, Perelandra, which isn't as good as the Narnia tales, but shows a keen mind at work. His straightforward religious writing is equally intelligent and without any agenda besides introducing the reader to a spiritual life (of nearly any sort) that can fill a very human need.  His religion was mainstream Anglicanism, and he writes about Christ and God, but the basis of his spirituality is universal, and can be applied wisely in any spiritual context.

My favorite quote from C.S. -- "Jack" to his friends -- condenses his mission. I also apply it to my approach to creativity, which is a spiritual journey as well:

"I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you -- the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence." (from "The Weight of Glory")

We all have an inconsolable secret. Lewis believed that taking a good hard look at that void, that lack, that need, led one inescapably to a lifelong and rewarding process of discovery.

Shadowlands is a wonderful, little-known movie about Lewis. Anthony Hopkins does a tour de force job as Lewis.

As for the Narnia movie, I loved it. But nothing can equal the thrill of reading the stories for the first time. I envy anyone starting out.

Favorite Movie Lines: A Semi-Regular Series

"For your information, little girl, whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips!" (Johnny Depp as Willie Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory)

“ ‘Isms”, in my opinion, are not good. A person should not believe in an ‘ism’. He should believe in himself. John Lennon said it on his first solo album.  ‘I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me. A good point there.  After all, he was the Walrus.”  (Matthew Broderick as Ferris Buehler in Ferris Buehler’s Day Off.)

"I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are just too bright... and when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice... but still, the place you live is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend."   (Morgan Freeman as Red in The Shawshank Redemption)

"My name is Lester Burnham. I'm forty two-years old. In less than a year, I'll be dead. In a way, I'm dead already. Look at me jerking off while I listen to country music. I hated this shit when I was growing up. Funny thing is, this is the high point of my day. It's all downhill from here."   (Kevin Spacey as Les in American Beauty)

THINGS THAT SURVIVE DIVORCE (TTSD) #2: Casablanca

I don't claim to have a favorite movie, but if you put a gun to my head, I'd have to say Casablanca, even though "favorite" isn't quite right.  Yeah, this is everyone's favorite movie.  And I'm just another Woody Allen wanna-be.  Well, to a certain extent.  Still, before Soon-Yi's stepfather, er, husband, er (his daughter! his sister!) ...Allen had written Play It Again Sam, I had a complicated relationship with this movie.  First of all, I said "movie," not film.  It certainly is both -- and that's what makes it great.  But I didn't know that when I first saw Casablanca on the late show at about eight or nine years old.  (Yes, I am that old, we didn't even have videos then, gather near my rocking chair so granny can box your impertinent ears.)  My mom had hinted that it was a good movie, and special to her. My parents were both actors, though my mother had not acted in some time.   She also said, intriguingly, "Your daddy looks a little like Humphrey Bogart."  It was the first Bogart movie I remember seeing.  I realized immediately that my father looked so exactly like Bogart, that I had goose pimples.  More correctly, he looked like what a younger Bogart had looked like in, say, 1935, and transported forward to the mid-sixties.  The time-travel factor just intensified the ambient weirdness. 

Then Ingrid Bergman appeared.  My goose bumps got goose bumps.  She had my mother's round-cheeked beauty, her broad brow, her luminous skin.  Watching these clones of my now-divorced parents catch sight of one another for the first time "since Paris"  oh, boy.  It was strange and too intimate and I couldn't tear my eyes away.  The political stuff floated right over my head then, despite frequent historical asides from my mother, who remembered the war as the defining moment of her generation.  No, the romance had me from hello -- and I cried so hard at the end I had hiccups. 

At a rough estimate, I've seen Casablanca all the way through at least a dozen or so times on TV, video, small art houses (The Rialto!  The Nuart!) and grand movie palaces (The Castro!), and nothing can ruin it.  I'm like one of those annoying Rocky Horror types that talks back to the screen, and recites whole speeches.  Every time I notice something new. {Footnote, if I knew how to make one in this posting format:  One of the most recent times, I discovered, thanks to my neighborhood juggler friends, a juggler on screen for about 4 seconds in the opening market scene.  (There's your free trivia for a bar bet, readers.  The burning controversy is settled at last.  There IS a juggler in Casablanca.) } We've all seen the key scenes and lines in excerpts so often that they have become a part of the national culture and consciousness -- every man wants to tip up Ingrid Bergman's chin, gaze into her limpid, tear-filled eyes, and growl "Here's looking at you, schweethart."  Every woman wants to bravely bear Ingrid's heartbreak as she goes on to be "the thing that keeps him going" to the man who single-handedly was going to save the world from the Dark Side.  Or something.  We all want to share Rick and Renault's crisp, cynical banter.  The movie is such a treasure trove of Favorite Movie Lines that I herewith **take note, there will be a quiz ** declare that it is Off-Limits to entries in that category, and henceforth registered in the Favorite Movie Lines Hall Of Fame.

My parents got older (while I have stayed magically youthful, and don't ask about that funny painting in the attic).  My father gradually and gladly became synonymous with Bogart to smaller and smaller circles before he died.  He married another Bergmanesqe beauty (and if you read this, Gail, hugs and kisses to you!).  By the time Daddy was 40, the resemblance was striking.  He had always done marvelous impressions of anyone, getting the voice, the squint, the monocle just right.  After a certain age, Daddy just looked like Bogart doing everyone he knew at Warner's and half of MGM to boot.  He got a lot of work from the mid-70's to the mid-80's playing Bogart in dinner theater Play It Again Sam productions in all the tired venues between Lubbock and Atlanta.  Long before Lost In Translation, Daddy was Big In Japan, recording saki commercials in a trenchcoat against a foggy backdrop of miniature prop planes.  Scenes in Ricks for beer commercials.  These happy, if parasitic, opportunities dried up slowly after Daddy passed 55 (the age at which Bogart died) and eventually started looking like Bogie's grandpa.  But he was registered with a look-alike agency and would appear at the opening of an envelope, his silver hair dyed a ghastly shoe-polish black.  He and the other look-alikes also worked as extras on occasion, which may confuse future film historians. 

My wedding in 1995 was decidedly retro, and held in a supper club not unlike Rick's Cafe.  Daddy, naturally, wore his white dinner jacket and wandered around with a cigarette and scotch.  I forgot a lot of people would be meeting him for the first time.  He got a LOT of second takes from the groom's tables.  Finally, only his best friend's grandchildren called him Bogey in the years before he passed away at 74.  When I cleaned out the house, I found an original Warner Bros. script for Casablanca.  It's post-production, but probably from the 50's anyway.  A friend (he had many) probably scammed it for him.  It's a genius script, possibly the best ever.  Certainly some of the best dialogue and an inspired cast to bring it alive.  It's lost it's initial Freudian voyerism and now I live for the Bogart-Rains dialogue.  Still, it will always feel just a bit too close to a home movie -- and where was Sam when I was growing up, anyway?  Don't we all want someone to follow us around and play the soundtrack of our lives?

The year after Daddy died, we had our annual Oscar Party with a Casablanca theme.  About 40 or 50 people.  Tons of lovely authentic Moroccan food, silk tenting the ceilings, brass hooka-ish elements here and there.  We had a couple of Captain Renaults, the aforementioned juggler, a couple of miscellaneous burnooses (burnoosi?), two tuxedoes, and a lethal punch named after the Blue Parrot Bar (Sydney Greenstreet's) containing Blue Curacaou, champagne, and about six other things.  Several people loitered near the bowl, fingering straws and looking furtive.  It was the best of the dozen or so of the Oscar Parties I gave in SF; I don't think I'll do any more.  They have passed on to other hands, and it's only fun as long as you have enough geographical distance from Hollywood to prompt a cheerful irreverence.   

But "we'll always have Paris . . . " and I raise a silent toast to my father every time I see a Bogart movie, especially Casablanca.

Note: all photos are of my father from TV commercials in the 70's and 80's -- I told you he looked like Bogart!

Narnia Fans -- I Know You're Out There, I Can Hear You Doing Your Reepicheep Imitation

I raised an early flag for this conference, in Nashville, of all places.  Past Watchful Dragons, Fantasy and Faith in the work of C.S. Lewis, November 3-5 at Belmont College.  There will be tons of theological types bumping into fantasy dweebs and I fall into either type or none.  It will either be awful or hella fun, with a great band and a symphony scheduled to boot.  Performances.  And probably a lot of virgins in heated discussions of whether Disney will change one iota of the Chronicles of Narnia in the forthcoming movie.  (It's Disney.  C'mon, whaddaya wanna bet?)  Hell, if it sucks, there are all the big hair palaces of Nashville, and a side trip to Graceland in Memphis couldn't be that hard and would wrap up the weekend in proper surreality.  Talk to me, all 3.13 of you, or I'll be alone eating humble pi.

Favorite Movie Lines: A Semi-Regular Installment

I noticed that AFI's television programming, which began with such gravitas, with shows like "The AFI Awards," and the defensible "100 Greatest Movies," now is issuing forth great gaseous poots like, "The 100 Greatest Movie Lines."  Greatest to whom?  Doesn't that totally eliminate some of the greatest films made, i.e., silent films?  What's next, "The 100 Greatest Movie Dogs," with London bookies making odds between Rin-Tin-Tin and that dog that kept mauling James Belushi in the K-9 series?  Hail to the Chimp? But I digress. 

In that tradition, I commence my own series of highly personal "Great Movie Lines", which will not be limited to lines that are either great or from movies, or in some cases lines.  Deal with it.  In addition, I make no claim to accuracy.  This is a list of those moments recorded in the semi-permeable, fluid membrane of memory that become in-jokes, personal talismans.  Without further ado:

1. "Pork away, pal! Fuck her blue!" -- Kevin Kline, A Fish Called Wanda

And, because this is a two-for-Wednesday, and I feel like it:

2. "Gay? I wish! If I were gay there'd be no problem!" -- Troy McClure (Phil Hartman), The Simpsons (episode where he marries Selma)

OK, readers (all mainland 48 of you): what links these two quotes?  A little work with Google and you'll have it.