Oscar Week: Joanne Woodward

I have to finish this post quickly so that I can have it up by midnight...that way it will still be Joanne Woodward's birthday by the time it's up.

Joanne Woodward won her Academy Award for the 1957 film The Three Faces of Eve in which she played a young housewife suffering from blackouts and wild mood swings. She's diagnosed as having multiple personality disorder (a theme Woodward would return to in Sybil nearly twenty years later.)

Essentially play three roles, including Eve Black and Eve White, two disparate personalities trapped in one woman's psyche, it's a tour de force for Woodward, even if the film is sometimes lacking subtlety. (Old advertising material for the film included the tag line, "A moment ago she was the nicest girl in town...a moment from now she will be anybody's pick-up!")

Joanne Woodward is a and warm presence whenever she appears on screen and I wish I'd had a chance to see on stage. The closest I got was seeing her and her husband Paul Newman at a screening of Shakespeare Wallah at a Merchant/Ivory film festival in the mid 90s. And yes, even from 30 feet away his eyes were little blue beacons of light.

Apparently a talented seamstress, Woodward made her own dress for the Oscar ceremony. I've seen it called one of the worst dresses in Oscar history, but I think the strapless emerald green original with leaf embroidery is unassuming and charming, much like its maker.

Oscar Week: Ingrid Bergman

Ingird Bergman won the first of her three Academy Awards for the 1944 film Gaslight. The exquisite and profoundly gifted Bergman plays Paula, a Victorian  newlywed who returns home to London with her new husband after years abroad following a family tragedy. Unfortunately her new husband (Charles Boyer) is trying quite literally to drive her insane. It's a finely acted melodrama and features the first on screen appearance of Angela Lanburry who was all of seventeen when she played the role of Paula's tart-tongued cockney maid.

Because World War II was still being waged the Oscar ceremony was a relatively low key affair and Bergman wore a simple dark dress that fell just below her knee. Frankly, it wasn't very flattering but you'd have to try a lot harder than a frumpy dress to dim Ingrid Bergman's radiance.

Oscar Week: Marion Cotillard

When I was about 17 years old I literally dreamed about making a movie based on the life of Edith Piaf. I only had a vague notion of who she was at the time, but I learned about her though books, a documentary on PBS and of course her recordings. A few years later while studying film at a community college I decided to take a French class. It fulfilled my language requirement but more importantly, I knew I would have to learn French before filming could begin on my 9 hour miniseries on the life of the Little Sparrow. I've always had incredibly detailed daydreams...come to think of it, not so unlike my nocturnal dreams.

My project never got beyond the dream stage, but happily writer/director Olivier Dahan was able to bring his vision of Piaf's life to the big screen in La Mome, which was renamed for American audience La Vie en Rose after one of Piaf's most popular songs.  It is for her performance in this film that Marion Cotillard was awarded the 2007 Best Actress Oscar making her the first actress to win for a French language performance.

The film is told in a series of seemingly random flashbacks as Piaf approaches death. One moment she's 30, then she's 5, then she's 20, and so on. It's dizzying and intense and feels a little sloppy, leaving some major early life events for the picture's final reel. I remember thinking that the film could have benefited from a more linear time line, but then it occurred to me that if I were on my deathbed reviewing my life, everything would not come back to me in a neat, orderly package. No, this is exactly how it would come, as a series of flashes and waves crashing through my mind like high tide during a late summer storm, and chronology be damned.

I've always thought of Edith Piaf as sort of the French Judy Garland. They were both big voiced singers adored by their countries, celebrated internationally, struggling with addiction and money troubles while trying to hold on to their talent, and ultimately leaving the stage rather early, much to the shock and sorrow of their fans.

Piaf packed a lot of hard living into her 47 years, and the delicately beautiful Cotillard does not shy away from the role's uglier moments, both physically and emotionally. 

[Note: I love the way the "painting" turned out and it feels vaguely French to me, but I have to confess most of it was achieved digitally after I hand colored my original sketch.] 

Oscar Week: Ruth Gordon

                              

Ruth Gordon won the Supporting Actress Oscar for her role in the 1968 film Rosemary's Baby, directed by Roman Polanski. She played Minnie Castevet, the busybody/devil worshiper next door. It was her first (and only) win after four previous nominations, including three for screenwriting.

One of the older winners at 72, Gordon gave a performance that at first glance seems typical, a comical archetype. By the film's end, and on repeated viewings, there is a sinister, manipulative layer just underneath the surface. Whether offering the pregnant Rosemary her homemade chocolate mousse, or nosily inquiring "what do you pay for a chair like that," Minnie's brand of evil is at once banal and insidious. 

I remember my mother not allowing me to see the film when it came on television because it had been condemned by the Catholic church. She finally relented when I was about 12, mostly, I think, because she wanted to see it herself. Strange as it sounds, Rosemary's Baby is one of the things that made me want to move to New York. From the beautiful, spacious apartments, to the sweltering heat of the summer dripping down Mia Farrow's neck, and the comforting hum of the Woodhouse's air conditioner, New York seemed to me like a grittier, more vibrant Emerald City. Add in the meddlesome satanist next door and I was hooked. After all, who wouldn't give their soul for an apartment in the Dakota and a nice chocolate mousse now and then?

Oscar Week: Geena Davis

I'll be posting portraits (doodles, sketches, whatever you want to call them) of some iof my favorite Oscar winners this week in celebration of next weeks ceremony. I'm using the word favorite very loosely. It could mean the performer, the performance, or maybe just the dress they wore to pick up their trophy.

Up first is Geena Davis, Best Supporting Actress of 1988 for her role as dog trainer Muriel Prichett in the screen adaptation of Anne Tyler's The Accidental Tourist. Seldom has a winner looked more radiant.  

At the time many felt that Davis had an unfair advantage over her competition given her large amount of screen time. But whether she truly belonged in the supporting category or not, she gave a whimsical and moving performance. 

Lift Every Voice and Sing

                                  

Something a little different for Black History month.

My drawing is based on the Augusta Savage sculpture commissioned for the 1939 World's Fair Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing (aka The Harp). It derives its title from the song of the same name, sometimes known as the Black National Anthem.

With words by educator James Weldon Johnson, it was first performed as a poem by school children in celebration of Lincoln's birthday in 1900. Five years later Johnson's brother John set the words to a stirring melody.  In my opinion it is one of the most beautiful songs every composed and I listen to it (and sing it!) often for inspiration. Yes, I know--I am whiter than cream cheese in a snow storm. Doesn't matter, it's just a damn fine beautiful song.

The sculpture by Savage (1892-1962), who was the first African American elected to the National Association of Women Painters and Sculptors, was a 16 foot tall plaster rendering of stylized figures in choir robes being cradled by the hand of God. The figures combine to form the strings of a harp, with a lone male figure hunched in front holding a piece of music and representing the harp's foot pedal.

Although it is among her best known works, alas The Harp exists only in photographs and memories. Like many of the fair's exhibits, it was designed to be temporary and no funds were set aside to move it or cast it in bronze at the exhibition's conclusion.

Much like the song, the sculpture just really grabs my imagination. I've been looking for one of the miniature versions that apparently were available as souvenirs in 1939 but have been unsuccessful in obtaining one so far. However, I did manage to score on Ebay an original set of postcards from the fair, which includes a rendering of Savage's master work.

Heartfelt as it is, my sketch does not do the piece justice, so I've included a photos I found of Savage at work on the piece in her Harlem studio. It would be lovely if everyone could, just once in their life, create something so awe inspiring.

At The Plaza Hotel Part 2

February 8, 2014

As I recover from my encounter with Candice Bergen, I walk along the perimeter of the dance floor. Eventually I find myself face to face with Audrey Hepburn--a youngish, sort of mid-century Audrey Hepburn.

Audrey Hepburn smiles at me, and wordlessly we begin to dance. Effortlessly we waltz around the room. I feel like I'm in heaven, but after a few minutes I become anxious. I am almost certain I'm about to be found out and tossed out of the Plaza on my ear.

"I have to go."

I pull away and look for an exit.

Audrey Hepburn calls after me with a smile in her voice.

"Come back on Valentine's Day!"

There Are Worse Things I Could Do

Stockard Channing

Today we celebrate the birth Susan Antonia Williams Stockard, born February 13, 1944. You may know her better as Stockard Channing.

What is it about humans that makes us pick favorites, to categorize everything into lists? Favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite songs, favorite actors. I don't know the answer, and even though I do it all the time (see the massive list of "favorites" on my Itunes) I'd be hard pressed to pick just one favorite performer, even after a lifetime of channel surfing and movie and theatre going. But I can tell you that Stockard Channing would undoubtedly hover near the top of the list.

I've seen her  in five plays, one musical, one staged reading, and one Christmas tree lighting. The first time I saw her on stage, in Six Degrees of Separation, I was so close to the stage I could see the veins in her legs through her shiny but sheer stockings. I didn't obsess over them or anything (I am definitely not someone who makes a habit of staring at veins, I'm way to queasy for that) but it was a moment that made me feel like, 'oh this is real, I'm seeing one of the English language's finest actresses at work in the flesh." It was a thrill. 

Five years ago while she was appearing on Broadway in Pal Joey, I met her at the stage door with flowers to celebrate her birthday. I thought there might be other well wishers there but it was just me. She was very gracious and stopped to take a picture and thank me, even though she was dangerously close to missing her half hour call. I had no way of knowing what time she'd arrive so I'd been waiting well over an hour in the cold. It was like Six Degrees of Fahrenheit. 

I'd met her briefly one other time at a reception following a staged reading of The Normal Heart.  A crowd had gathered around her as she shook hands and signed autographs for people. As I awaited my turn I tried to think of something intelligent to say. I wanted desperately to make a good impression. And what came out when I opened my mouth, what did I ask of the woman who had returned to the New York stage to show the world that she was more than just the girl from Grease? 

"Do you think you'll ever do another musical?"

To her credit she did take a second to think about it as she handed me back my freshly signed Playbill.

"I don't know...I hope so"

"I hope so, too!"

I guess there are worse things I could have said.

At The Plaza Hotel Part 1

Candice Bergen and her dummy.

February 8, 2014

I'm at a fancy dinner dance at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. I know I don't belong here and I sneak around hoping not to get caught. 

I notice Candice Bergen strolling around with great purpose, almost as if she's managing the entire affair. I approach her excitedly.

"I had a dream about you," I tell her. "You were a ventriloquist, just like your father."

Without ever breaking her stride, she shoots me an icy stare and deadpans, "Oh yeah? Where you the dummy?"  

Ouch. 

Blue Giraffe

                            

December 30, 2013

I've traveled to South Africa to attend the funeral of Nelson Mandela. I'm staying at a palatial compound high in the hills above Johannesburg. [Are there hills above Johannesburg? I have no idea.]

There is an infinity pool, and it is mesmerizing to gaze out over the horizon as the pool seems to meet the lush valley below. I notice on the edge of the pool a small statue of blue giraffe. I walk to the far side of the pool to retrieve it. It's smooth and shiny, made of porcelain or perhaps a dyed ivory. It is the most exquisite thing I have ever seen, or so I tell a man who seems to be in charge of the compound. 

"Can I have it?" I ask the man.

He tells me the giraffe is part of the estate, and no, I may not have it. 

"What about the gift shop? Could I find one in the gift shop? I'm not going to the funeral until I get one of those giraffes."

I'd like to think that in my waking life I would not skip a state funeral over a giraffe. An elephant or a lion maybe, but not a giraffe.