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  • Tempers: Sweet Bird of Youth

    You: If you had to have a dinner party with 10 famous people of your choosing who would you pick?

    Me: Well I’m glad you asked me that. When planning a fantasy celeb dinner party you must remember that it’s still a party. Gandhi, for example, is a great man, but at a party he might be a downer. With that in mind, my choices are: Jean Cocteau, Tina Fey, James Franco, Miles Davis, Groucho Marx, Nicki Minaj (Groucho needs a sassy young thing to chase) and two Geraldine Pages. One to perform, and one to interrogate.

    I first met Geraldine as Alexandra De Lago in Sweet Bird of Youth. It was love at first sight and we have enjoyed a lovely relationship ever since.

    This 1962 Richard Brooks film stars Page and Paul Newman who reprise their Broadway roles as aging movie star Alexandra De Lago (Princess Kosmonopolis) and sad gigolo Chance Wayne. During a screening of her latest “come back” picture De Lago is horrified to see that her youth has faded. She flees the theater mid-showing and embarks on a “I need to forget who I am” bender that spans several continents. Along the way De Lago picks up Chance who fulfills the duties of his position while attempting to exploit her fame and power. You see, Chance is desperate to reclaim the happiness of his youth: Heavenly Finley (Shirley Knight), the perfect white, blonde, nearly translucent example of virginal goodness. Unfortunately for Chance, Heavenly is the daughter of evil politician and virtue preservationist Boss Finley (Ed Begley).

    Though a shirtless Newman lends fuel for masturbatory fire and Begley is despicably grotesque, this is really Page’s show.

    You might consider Bird a poor choice for inclusion in Tempers. Many other characters  scream louder and kick harder. We all know Sonny Corleone has a scary temper, but the anxiety caused by unpredictability is also frightening. Deep in post-failure nihilism, Alexandra is too deflated to rage in her usual way. Instead she battles like a wilting Venus Fly Trap. Her fury never fully surfaces. She is forever on the verge of a tantrum, dropping one shoe and dangling the other.

    Still, she is a power.

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  • Series II: Tempers

    It’s time for another Mirror special series. Get ready for:

    Tempers.

    Don’t worry, Race in Film isn’t going anywhere, I’m just tacking another one on.

    tem·per

    /ˈtɛmpər/ –noun 1. a particular state of mind or feelings. 2. habit of mind, esp. with respect to irritability or patience, outbursts of anger, or the like; disposition: an even temper. 3. heat of mind or passion, shown in outbursts of anger, resentment, etc. Marcus Aurelius said “How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.” Abert Einstein said "Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools." Mark Twain said "Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured." If this is true, I've been populating my life with corroded morons.

    Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.

    - Phyllis Diller

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  • Race in Film: Festen (The Celebration)

    The inclusion of an African American character in Thomas Vinterberg’s 1998 film Festen (see previous post) is a curious thing.  First I should make clear that the character is indeed an American man of African descent, not a black Dane, or an African immigrant (an important distinction).

    In the middle of Helge’s birthday dinner, sister Helene’s boyfriend Gbatokai (played by Gbatokai Dakinah*) arrives outside in a cab. Surprise! He’s black! Thinking he’s a hotel guest come to rent a room, brother Michael runs out to send him away, and is ridiculously offensive. Poor Michael can’t stop trying to prove his masculinity. He makes a fool of himself once again attempting to defend an institution that will soon be proved a sham and a king that will topple. “Hey Charlie Brown!” he shouts (at least he’s a creative bigot). He continues to flail around throwing racial slurs here and there “We don’t need any jazz players”, until Helene comes out, calls Michael a “Nazi bastard” and escorts her man inside.

    The tension between Michael and Gbatokai continues of course, as Michael does everything in his power to cast out the intruder, including prompting a table-wide rendition of a racist Danish childrens’ song.  It makes sense that Michael should have such a strong reaction to Gbatokai’s presence as Helene’s boyfriend, and a black person in general. More than any other, Michael wants to keep things in their proper place. Nothing should be disrupted . This is the only power he has, and the only way he knows to win his father’s respect. Michael is also the kind of man to jump at the opportunity to place someone beneath him. It gives him the elevation he so desperately desires. The lower he places Gbatokai, the higher he rises.

    The other night I forced my dear friend Jessie talk to me about Festen and Gbatokai. Jessie’s Mother is Danish of mixed descent (her mother is a white Dane and her father was Ghanaian). Jessie is fluent in Danish and has spent a great deal of time in Denmark where she and her sister receive plenty of stares when out with “mormor”, their tiny white grandmother. At Jessie’s birthday party a few years ago they all sang the “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah” birthday song and I shouted “Ooo it’s just like in ‘The Celebration!!!'”

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  • Festen (The Celebration)

    * This is a particularly rambling one, so get a snack or something*

    When I was younger (I’m an ancient 26 now if you must know) I was very anti hand held camera.

    I do not like extraneous camera movement. I’m not a fan of the hovering camera. There are rarely any truly static shots anymore and this breaks my heart.

    In a spirit of instinctive contradiction I am avoiding all camera movement, which is so much in the fashion that the experts think it indispensable.
    – Jean Cocteau

    First you must understand that everything you read comes straight from the moist soul of a deeply devoted Visconti fan (he is in my gut you know. Helmut Berger lives inside my stomach in purple eyeshadow, while dark and thick haired girls roam the halls of my intestines). Now that you know this, let’s continue.

    The hand held camera can easily disguise mediocrity under the veil of artistry. This is where my irritation begins. You will find that many young filmmakers who employ this style are great admirers of the French New Wave. These directors were of course magnificent, but I suspect it is the seeming ease of the style (natural lighting, jump cuts, hand held, improvised dialogue, lack of plot etc) that attracts so many young directors and provokes poor mimicry. It is an avant-garde style that doesn’t take much work to pull off, or so they falsely believe.

    Of course hand held can be a good choice, the best for certain stories, but it can also be employed with little thought only because it is simple and in vogue (like turning up the contrast on photographs of yourself, it can easily hide flaws). The same can be said for a host of other shooting techniques and certain kinds of framing, but it is the ease of hand held that makes it such an attractive choice. The moral of the story is, hand held is a device as important as any other, however, its inherent ease lends itself to abuse in the hands of those wishing to be artistic without reason.

    …And then I used my first digital camera (had only worked with 16mm until then), and my ideas changed.

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  • Bread & Chocolate: Memoirs of a Suspicious Foreigner

    This is Mirror’s first guest post! Every now and then select persons will bless us with their most personal musings on film.

    James has been a dear friend of mine for years and years. I recall one particularly wonderful afternoon spent getting very drunk on a stone bench in Boston’s Little Italy whilst sharing our delight over Jean Cocteau’s “The Art of Cinema.” We are creative soul mates and must live at least 500 miles apart or else die in the heat of each other’s suns. This is the only reason why James lives in Beunos Aires, Argentina. Together we would cause far too much trouble.

    ***

    For the past few years I have been living in Buenos Aires, enjoying a little bit of paradise. This far south, it is easy to remain blissfully unaware of the world outside my adopted city, with news and familial nagging lost somewhere over the equator. I’ve walked the long road of assimilation, navigating the pitfalls of sloppy conjugation and verbal embarrassment. I’ve offended locals and invited muggings with outrageous foreign fashions and for a long time led the life of an outsider. But over time, I have learned the rules while gradually gaining the respect of my Argentine friends. Slowly being accepted as not just another clueless, carpetbagging foreigner means being granted the gift of reluctant relaxation. Gone are the ghastly stares of yesterday, which means I can now go an entire meal without addressing the waitress as pig-fucker and enjoy far cheaper cab fare. But, with the return of of the World Cup, there has been a familiar feeling afoot here in Arcadia.

    As a stranger to football culture, it seemed the entire country has been throwing an epic party for a few weeks now, one to which–forgive the cliche–I was not invited. On game days, streets are abandoned. Shops and schools are closed. A makeshift sign on a hospital reads, “emergencies only.” Impromptu parades and fireworks randomly materialize upon the city, in what I assume are signs of victory. These bizarre celebrations leave people jubilant, overwhelmed with a pride that comes from simply being Argentine.

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  • Race in Film: Shanghai Express

    **I’m a little sick. Please excuse the stuffed nose voice**

    As evidenced by this very Race in Film series, color is a large part of my life. This is frequently not by choice, as was certainly the case when I was a child.

    It is 1993. I wear turtlenecks under Champion sweatshirts like on TV. I feel proud about this, my first deliberate sartorial decision. I sit at my desk and quietly enjoy the feeling. The room is hushed. We scrawl on a worksheet. The substitute teacher calls me to her desk. We all look up.
    “Kartina,” she says.
    “What are you?”
    Her eyebrows draw together in the middle.
    “Are you Eskimo?”
    She must find out. She must know.

    Unfortunately my sass had not yet developed, and instead of protesting her insensitivity, I replied and satisfied her curiosity. I returned to my seat and continued my school life as the “other”, turtlenecks in sweatshirts of little help.
    I had this same teacher a few more times, and since she had forgotten, she asked me the same question again…and again.

    Such is the life of the mixed person (in the parlance of our times). When you are multiracial, or even look like you are, prepare to be reminded of the fact every day.

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  • To Catch a Thief: Danielle

    My lord. It’s been quite a while hasn’t it?

    There are many things to say about To Catch a Thief.

    The scenery is certainly worth a rapturous comment or two. The color photography more so. Cary Grant’s furrowed brow (also making frequent appearances in Suspicion, Notorious, North by Northwest and maybe even Father Goose) deserves a discussion of its own. And there is no reason why Grace Kelly’s Philadelphian lilt alone (simultaneously aristocratic and mischievous) shouldn’t inspire a few spontaneous collages, novels, fashion editorials, interior design ideas, and new kinds of martinis.

    Oh Yes. There are many things to say. But I shall say only one:

    Isn’t Danielle Foussard a lovely little thing?

    Wait, wait, wait. But isn’t Grace Kelly the Hitchcockian towhead of choice?

    Well yes.

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  • Le Notti Bianche (White Nights)

    Count Luchino Visconti di Modrone is my beloved. Grand and operatic. Never fearing the theatrical or taboo (but never vulgar for vulgarities sake).

    You see, we are exactly alike.

    The Count was an interesting man. A member of the Italian aristocracy and the Italian Communist Party. He was open with his homosexuality, and photographs men in a way unlike any other directors I’ve seen.

    He showcases their beauty.

    Le Notti (based on the Dostoevsky short story) has an unusual cast, all actors I associate with different directors simply because I saw them in other movies first. Marcello Mastroianni (Fellini’s man), Maria Schell (Rene Clement’s girl), and Jean Marais (Cocteau).

    Schell (with the most expressive eyes) plays Natalia, an innocent girl in a small city who pines away after Jean Marais, a lover who has left, but she insists will return to her. Natalia meets Mario (Mastroianni), a lonely wanderer who falls in love with her. Mastroianni tries desperately to convince Natalia to forget Marais and begin a new life with him. Will she or won’t she? I shall never tell. You must watch it yourself.

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  • Race in Film: Tammy & the Bachelor

    In elementary school, my desire to be white was so strong, I created two imaginary sisters. They were both older and white with red hair and lived in California. One’s name was Gina, and the other’s was Tammy. I named her Tammy after the character in the 1957 film Tammy and the Bachelor directed by Joseph Pevney. Who could be whiter than Tammy?

    Tammy is not a good movie. It isn’t even a “bad” movie that amuses its way to being “good” (Frankie & Annette have a special place in my heart). It’s just bland and uninventive. I know the Beach Party movies aren’t winning any medals for innovation, but they at least possess a certain stupid energy. Tammy is a joyless film. A strange statement for a movie about a girl whose most cherished attribute is overzealousness, but even Reynold’s sparkling sparkles can’t cover up the fact (fact=my opinion) that no person’s love went into making the film. No one cared about it. Watching Tammy is like watching a small orphan roam through a busy market. We question the ways of the universe: How could this happen? How did it end up this way? Isn’t anyone looking after it? Doesn’t anyone care? Doesn’t anyone care?”
    No. No one cares.
    That is the problem.
    How dare Universal slap this, AND subsequent Tammy movies, on the public, and how dare the public gobble this up. I am very forgiving when it comes to wide screen technicolor movies. Doubly so if it’s a movie that I enjoyed as a child. The very fact that they are Cinemascope with Stereophonic sound will keep me watching, but it cannot be faked with Tammy . It’s really unfortunate since Debbie Reynolds has no shortage of charm (in other movies).

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  • The Bachelor & the Bobby Soxer

    Apologies:
    1. I apologize for the interlaced video.
    2. I apologize for the lapse in posting. I was lazing about at the beach

    Dear readers,

    Your day is about to be made. I have a glorious treat for you.

    It is something many writers and directors strive for, but few ever attain.

    It is the perfect comedic scene, and it is in The Bachelor & the Bobby Soxer from 1947 starring Cary Grant, Shirley Temple, and Myrna Loy.

    Of note: Grant also exercised his dramatic muscles as an angel in The Bishop’s Wife the same year. In 1948 he was back to being his funny flustered self in Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, also with Myrna Loy. Coincidentally all three of these movies were main players in the Richardson VHS rotation. After Blandings Grant didn’t make another good movie until To Catch A Thief in 1955. My apologies if you like I Was a Male War Bride.

    In Bachelor Grant plays Richard Nugent, a fancy bachelor artist who frequently finds himself in trouble with the law. The latest judge deciding his fate is Margaret Turner, an unimpressed cynic played by Myrna Loy. Loy lets Nugent go with only a warning, and off he goes to guest lecture at a high school, the very same high school that Margaret’s teenage sister Susan attends! Susan is a melodramatic bobby soxer played by a teenage Shirley Temple (she lucked out with the perfect combination of cuteness & sex appeal. Everything you would want your teenage Shirley Temple to be).

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