On The Occasion of Her Ninety-Ninth Birthday

8/29/14

What a day. Not only was the great jazz and blues singer Dinah Washington born on this day, but so was my favorite old Hollywood star Ingrid Bergman. The three-time Academy Award winner (not to mention a couple of Emmys and a Tony--she was a Triple Crown winner before we had the EGOT) was born in Stockholm, Sweden on August 29, 1915. 

Her remarkable beauty made her a natural choice for Hollywood, but it was her talent and intelligence that kept her working for more than forty years, despite falling out of favor with a puritanical American public and being condemned on the floor of the House of Representatives after following her heart out of an unhappy marriage and into the arms of Italian filmmaker Roberto Rossellini. 

When her eight year battle with cancer came to a close August 29, 1982, her sixty-seventh birthday, she was surrounded by family and held on long enough to lift a glass of champagne to her lips. I love the symmetry of checking out on the same date on which you arrived. It seems strangely classy to me, and so today I raise a glass to this classy woman who convincingly played everything from a nun to an Israeli prime minister on the occasion of her ninety-ninth birthday. 

Aren't They Something?

8/17/14

I had a dream...I'm watching TV, yet it feels like I'm actually there with the people on TV. There's a commercial with Lauren Bacall surrounded by a bunch of tuxedo clad chorus boys. They frame her as if they're about to do a big dance number. Lauren, in a kind of ugly green evening gown, looks down at her breasts, then into the camera she purrs, "Aren't they something?" 

But it turns out she's really talking about her wrists, as the commercial is for some kind of arthritis cream. 

The commercial fades to black. I now see Lauren sitting on the couch at the Oprah Winfrey Show. She is joined by a group of female models who all laugh and giggle.

 Lauren's top is made out of a stretchy, gauzy material and her breasts easily pop out when she waves her arms. She laughs uproariously at this and tells everyone it was an accident, but the twinkle in her eye tells me she knows exactly what she's doing.

[In the dream, both breasts were visible. But I was worried about being insensitive so soon after Lauren's passing, and my friend Carlos advised me that it's much classier to only show one nip.]

The Whole God Damned Picture

Estelle Parsons in Bonnie & Clyde

I re-watched Bonnie & Clyde today, which brought back many memories. I don't think I've written about it before, but if I have, well, it's like my old therapist Dr. Lowenstein used to say, "Sometimes we have to repeat the same stories over and over again so that we can really process them."  

When I was growing up I was allowed to watch almost anything I wanted on TV.  By six I was watching All In The Family, followed in short order by Maude, Police Woman, Charlie's Angels, an assortment of Movies of the Week, and of course my mother's favorite soap operas, Another World, Days of Our Lives, and The Doctors. 

I'm not saying exposing me to violent crime dramas, steamy love affairs, and biting social commentary before I could tie my own shoes was the most responsible parenting choice, but it beat the hell out of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie, and I imagine it did help shape my world view, for better or worse. 

There are only two things I can remember my mother not letting me watch on TV; both were theatrical films. The first, Rosemary's Baby, became one of my favorite movies after she finally relented when I was about fifteen. The only reason I wasn't allowed to watch it in the first place is because it had been condemned by our local Catholic newspaper, The Catholic Standard & Times. Had it only been "Morally Objectionable In Part For All," it might have squeaked past her much sooner.

The other movie was Bonnie & Clyde. Even when I was a teenager, even when I was twenty, she refused to let me watch that movie. My mother's control over our family television was absolute. In most cases I could persuade, beg or charm her into changing the channel. "But Mom, it's a very special episode. Charlie is sending the Angels on a cruise!" Heck, later I even got her to let me watch The Days & Nights of Molly Dodd, which she absolutely hated. Something about the color of Blair Brown's hair set her off. 

But I digress. Any normal parent would have kept their child from watching Bonnie & Clyde because it features about 1,000 gun shots, several on screen deaths, and a murderous, impotent bank robber. None of those things bothered my mother particularly. 

Whenever Bonnie & Clyde came on TV, my mother would say, "We're not watching that. Change the channel. I can't stand Estelle Parsons in that thing."

"But Mom," I would argue, "she won an Oscar for this movie."

"I don't care what she won. All she does is scream through the whole God damned picture."

I so clearly remember her calling it a "picture," like she was Jack Warner, or Mr. Mayer sitting behind his desk on the MGM lot.

To be fair, we did enjoy watching Estelle Parsons several times in The Watermelon Man and For Pete's Sake as Barbra Streisand's shrewish sister-in-law, but my mother just could not abide her in this particular picture.

I never did see Bonnie & Clyde until a few months after my mother died. It was strange and liberating and also a little sad not to have someone there telling me I couldn't watch it. 

I smile and think of my mom whenever I hear Estelle Parson's name. I've seen her on stage a few times now and I think she's a terrific actress. And in Bonnie & Clyde  she gives a full-throttled, committed performance...but it's hard to argue with my mother's assessment. Her voice is shrill and it touches a nerve as she shrieks, and yes, screams through the whole God damned picture.