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I finally watched George Cukor's 1954 remake of A STAR IS BORN (starring Judy Garland and James Mason, natch) for the first time on Friday night. I'm still fond of William Wellman's 1937 original starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March (Wellman not only directed that one, he was co-writer of the original story), but I enjoyed the remake very much.
As always. when watching an old movie, I was on the lookout for anthropological insights; I enjoy old movies as much for the window they offer into life as it was lived in the recent past as for their artistic merits.
In an early scene, Esther Blodgett (Garland), having quit her job as a singer for a big band at the suggestion of the utterly unreliable movie star Norman Maine (Mason), is reduced to carhopping at a drive-in restaurant.
These were the days before those backlit menus with the two-way speakers that have been a drive-in staple now for some forty years. In the early fifties, car hops still delivered paper menus to each car.
In the scene in question, Blodgett walks up to a convertible that's just pulled in and hands a menu to the driver.
Customer: What's good to eat today?Esther: Well, we have cheeseburgers, nut burgers, banana burgers, chicken burgers, lobster burgers, tuna burgers, chop suey burgers, and our own special super duper super burger.
Customer: Well, what's in that?
Esther: Everything in the place -- all burgered.
Now, my question is this: What the hell are nut burgers and banana burgers?
Even the mention of lobster burgers and tuna burgers struck me as a little anachronistic. Somehow, I just wouldn't expect an early 1950s drive-in to offer a tuna burger (much less a lobster burger).
Chop suey burgers don't throw me. You can get those even today at Nathan's on Coney Island (well, you can get chop suey on a bun, which I'm guessing is what a chop suey burger is).
But nut burgers and banana burgers? By those, I'm flummoxed.
We've reached the one-year anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq.
As you pause to remember and honor all the patriotic American men and women who have served over the past 12 months, who have risked their well-being in sacrificing their bodies and, too often, their lives, please save a little time, too, to honor and mourn the many thousands of innocent Iraqis who have lost their lives in this struggle (not to mention the many thousands more who have been wounded and maimed).
The Pentagon refuses to acknowledge them, preferring to pretend they don't exist. But we know better, and we must remember that the Iraqi people were not and are not our enemies, though they have bled and died just as if they were.
Remember our troops in your thoughts and prayers (and perhaps by joining me in contributing to the Armed Forces Relief Trust). Then honor them in November by doing your small part to unseat the lying skunks who placed them all in harm's way on false pretenses.
When one publishes a book, a volume that somehow manages to deliver neither the fame, the riches, nor the lucrative movie deal one so richly deserves, one learns to settle instead for small pleasures.
Take the mysterious delights of foreign publication, for example. When my own humble little hardback was published back in 2000, publishers from a number of European countries -- England, France, and Germany, among them -- expressed interest in purchasing the rights to it. I harbored visions of a triumphant European tour, of well-attended promotional events in all of Europe's major capitals, of attractive, intellectual women with enticing accents lining up for hours just for the opportunity to tell me how deceptively brilliant my work is.
But one by one, those European publishers fell by the wayside. I was given the impression (though I can't say for certain) that it's not so much that one's representatives ever have to take no for an answer, exactly; instead, a week or three goes by with no contact until finally it's understood by all involved parties that the moment has passed, that no deal is forthcoming.
Still, since I viewed as astounding the mere fact that I'd managed to have published a collection of my pithy fluff, I tried not to let the fact that few of those foreign nibbles turned into actual bites distress me. Everything above and beyond the very publication of my modest little volume struck me as the sweetest of icing upon the cake.
Besides, one foreign publisher had, in fact, decided to take the plunge, so there was due cause for celebration. Vassallucci, a Dutch publisher, bought the rights to publish the book in the Netherlands in a trade paperback format. I was further pleased to learn that the cover of the Dutch edition would closely resemble the American edition (a jacket I'd had a hand in designing). I also got a kick out knowing there'd be an edition of my book of which I couldn't read a single word.
Alas, not long after the Dutch edition hit the shelves, the American edition of the book went out of print, an occasion that can't help but make a first-time author like me feel a little blue. But hey, at least the book was still in print somewhere in the world, right?
But how well was the book doing there? One doesn't really receive much in the way of sales reports on foreign editions (I haven't, in any case). I came to assume the book was not a huge success in the Netherlands because I'd received no royalty checks. The advance had not been so very large, so, surely, if the book was a runaway hit, I'd have covered my advance and started to rake in the royalties by now, no?
But a few weeks back, I got an email from a representative of another Dutch publishing company, Rainbow. It seems Rainbow had purchased the rights from Vassallucci to publish a pocket edition of Men My Mother Dated. I was tickled pink by this news, to tell it honestly. The fact that my book was still going strong in Holland, if not here, cheered me immensely.
The new edition's decidedly different cover doesn't really appeal to me, I have to admit, but since I had no say in the matter, I chose to focus on the positive.
On the very day my four complementary copies of the pocket edition arrived in the mail, I stopped by my favorite lunch counter for a turkey burger. The amiable fellow behind the counter was speaking a language I almost (but not quite) recognized with another customer, a young man in his mid-20s. It was soon revealed to me that the language was Dutch, that the young man was visiting New York from Holland.
I couldn't resist sharing my recent good news with him. "You know, I have a book that just came out in a pocket edition in your country."
"You do?" he said. "What's the name of it?"
"I'm afraid I don't know how to pronounce the Dutch title," I admitted sheepishly, "but here it's called Men My Mother Dated."
These are the moments a relatively unknown author lives for. Imagine the thrill when a chance encounter such as this one turns into a delightful affirmation, when a young man from across the Atlantic expresses delight and disbelief at the opportunity to meet Brett Leveridge -- the Brett Leveridge! -- whose book is so very popular among those in the young man's circle.
"My friends and I love your book!" he would gush. "We all have the first edition, but now that it's out in a pocket edition, we'll all want to buy that, too. Could I please have your autograph, Mr. Leveridge?"
And, of course, I would happily oblige the young man. In fact, I'd grab a stack of paper napkins from the counter and sign them all, so that he might distribute them among all my ardent fans in his social circle.
It would be the least I could do, after all, to show my appreciation for their enthusiastic support.
Sadly, though, that's not the direction this encounter took. After I revealed the name of the book, the young man tilted his head a bit and looked skyward, obviously scouring his brain for the slightest memory of such a title.
"I'm sorry," he admitted, finally. "I don't think I've heard of it."
"You're hardly alone, my friend," I thought.
Duly humbled, I took my turkey burger and slunk away.
The former Coalition of the Willing is now transforming into something more along the lines of The Association of the Duped.
As cited in today's edition of The Daily Mislead, Poland's president, Aleksander Kwasniewski, admitted to a group of European reporters yesterday that he "feel[s] uncomfortable [about Iraq] due to the fact that we were misled with the information on weapons of mass destruction."
Hey Mr. President, we sympathize! They've been lying to us for months.
Why, just a couple of days ago, the Committee on Government Reform released its report on the misstatements offered by the Bush administration during the rush to war. This report is (and here I'm quoting the committee's website) "a comprehensive examination of the statements made by the five Administration officials most responsible for providing public information and shaping public opinion on Iraq: President George W. Bush, Vice President Richard Cheney, Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of State Colin Powell, and National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice."
So does the report contain? Why, only "237 specific misleading statements about the threat posed by Iraq made by these five officials in 125 public appearances in the time leading up to and after the commencement of hostilities in Iraq."
Believe me, President Kwasniewski, we feel your pain.
Wanna see Donald Rumsfeld squirm as his lies are exposed on national television?
You know you do.
Today is the 85th anniversary of the birth of a true giant of American music. Nathanial Adams Cole -- better known as Nat "King" Cole -- was born on March 17th, 1919 (though there is some doubt as to the actual year), in Montgomery, Alabama (though he would spend most of his formative years in the Chicago area).
His was a groundbreaking life and career, and for all the acclaim he has received over the years, he is still, in my view, vastly underappreciated. Those pundits, critics, and commentators who would have us believe that there was Sinatra, and then there was everyone else, give short shrift to the great Nat Cole. Perhaps if Cole had lived as long as Sinatra, he would have been given his due.
Cole first made his mark as a jazz pianist, and if he'd never opened his mouth to sing, he still would be considered a giant by those in the know. The Nat "King" Cole Trio was a groundbreaking ensemble, not only because of Nat's innovative piano stylings, but also due to the fact that the trio was made up of piano, guitar, and bass -- no drums (though eventually a bongo player was added). No less an authority than the great Count Basie said of the trio's improvisational interplay, "Those cats used to read each other’s minds—it was unbelievable."
The (probably apocryphal) story goes that he first sang only because a drunken patron of the club in which the trio was booked insisted he do so (and backed up his request with a generous offering in the tip jar). In any case, it is true that, in the early days of the trio, it was Cole's piano playing, not his vocals, that were the trio's main draw.
But as Cole's singing grew richer and more nuanced, his singing was moved to the forefront until finally, in the 1950s, he stopped fronting the trio altogether. His warm, gentle baritone carries an elegance and a generosity that makes the listener feel he's singing just for you, to you, about you.
There really wasn't much Nat Cole couldn't handle, vocally. We remember him best for his tender love ballads, but he could swing it with the best of them, and when he branched out and covered country songs or even dabbled in rock 'n' roll (check out his soulful recording of "Send for Me"), he always acquitted himself with aplomb.
From all accounts, he was as gentle and warm a soul as he was a singer. I once spoke to Debbie Reynolds about Cole, and she recalled him as exceedingly gentle and kind, widely respected as performer and as a man. She said he wasn't bitter after the racial prejudice and rancor he'd encountered over the years. "It'll pass," she quoted him as saying. "The years will go by, and it will all go away." I wish he'd lived to see the day; I hope I will.
Many may not know that Cole was the first African American to host his own network variety show, a 15-minute offering that aired weekly on NBC-TV. In those days, sponsorship was the be-all, end-all of a TV show's success, so, though "The Nat King Cole Show" received excellent ratings, it was cancelled after 64 episodes because no national advertiser was willing to sponsor a black man's show. In the 1940s, Cole had also been the first African-American to have his own radio program.
In the fifties, Cole was enormously popular, selling millions of records around the world. He was, in fact, a much bigger star in the early fifties than Frank Sinatra. When he signed with Capitol Records in the early forties, it was a fledgling label. By the early 1950s, Cole had sold so many millions of records that the iconic Capitol Records building, on Hollywood and Vine, was dubbed "The House that Nat Built."
Like the great Louis Armstrong, he was, in his day, sometimes criticized for his relatively mellow approach to activism on the civil rights front, but from our current vantage point, it's easy to see that those criticisms were unwarrated. He certainly wasn't above the fray; he wasn't allowed to be.
In 1956, Cole was scheduled to play a concert in Birmingham, Alabama. The show was marred by violence, however, when a group of racist anti-segregationists rushed the stage and attempted to kidnap Cole.
Imagine that scene: Cole was quite literally one of the biggest stars in the world at the time, and these hate-mongers were so arrogant, so filled with loathing, as to imagine that they could storm a public stage and carry him off. They were foiled in their attempt, thankfully, but Cole never again set foot in his native state.
On a lighter note is the following tale: In 1949, Cole bought a large, lovely home in the exclusive Hancock Park section of Los Angeles. The area property owners association approached Cole, telling him they didn't want any undesireables in the neighborhood. Cole responded that he certainly shared their concerns, and in the event that he saw anyone undesireable in the area, he'd be the first to let them know."
A brilliant response.
Cole succumbed to lung cancer on February 15, 1965 -- just a few weeks short of his 46th birthday. It's astonishing to think of all he accomplished in so short a time.
I remember well his passing -- or, rather, I remember how saddened my mother was at the news. She was very fond of Cole's work and played him often in our home. I was about seven at the time, so, of course, I didn't understand Cole's role in the world and what he had contributed. But his death made my mom sad, and that's all I needed to know.
If you own no Nat Cole records, it's time you rectified that, but until you do, you can listen to some selections from across his career here.
If you like what you hear and wish to purchase some Nat Cole music for your own collection, I recommend The After Midnight Sessions to you as a good place to start. It's a mid-1950s collection that reunited Nat with his trio. It boasts some swinging numbers and some sweet tunes and makes for a very nice overview of Cole's many talents.
A snowy day in Manhattan is a good time to daydream about where I might like to go when I take some time off this summer.
I'm a little surprised to find myself thinking of returning to Los Angeles. Like every self-respecting New Yorker, many's the time I've openly mocked La-la Land, but I have to admit, the seven days I spent there last summer was as fine a week's vacation as I've spent in some time.
My first impression of the City of Angels, back in 1992, was not a particularly positive one. I was traveling cross-country (I spent four months on the road and set foot in all 48 contiguous states) and arrived in L.A. at the end of my favorite leg of the journey: two weeks spent traversing Route 66 from end to end.
I managed to have a little touristy fun that time -- as a movie buff, LA is certainly not without interest for me -- but my lingering impression of that three-day sojourn was colored by a non-violent (thankfully) but plenty frightening road rage incident.
The second time I visited L.A. was at the very end of my book tour in July of 2000. I never dreamed that promoting one's book could be so tiring (especially when the book in question is a relatively minor title -- I mean, it's not as though members of the media were knocking down my door). So I did little that trip but relax and regroup.
But last summer, I finally got a real taste of the city for the first time. I spent one day on a self-curated (with the help of this book) tour of Raymond Chandler's LA (I visited several locations that appear in his novels, including the corner where Philip Marlowe's office was located, and drove by three of Chandler's many area residences). Another day was devoted to a walking tour ofHollywood Boulevard (there are informative signs along the way that point out sites of interest). I got to visit Venice Beach for the first time (and stroll along the canals, which I never even knew existed) and revisit the Santa Monica Pier. I patronized a number of beautiful old movie theatres (LA has it all over NYC in this regard), including the glorious Mann's Chinese, and poked my nose in for a peek at several others (I was frustrated by the fact that seemingly every old bijou I wanted to see was playing TERMINATOR 3). I ate lunch at Musso and Frank Grill, the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, and Miceli’s Italian Restaurant, Hollywood's oldest pizzeria. I also enjoyed a refreshing beverage one afternoon at the resurrected Pig 'n Whistle.
I made a driving tour of movie stars' homes (including, among many others, the abodes of Jimmy Stewart, Lucille Ball, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks [the storied Pickfair}, Groucho Marx, Harold Lloyd, Nat "King" Cole, Buster Keaton, Will Rogers, Milton Berle, and Ernst Lubitsch) and walked among the very fine vintage skyscrapers of downtown L.A., including the gorgeous Bradbury Building. I visited the La Brea Tarpits and the L.A. County Museum of Art.
And yet, there's much more to I'd like to see and do there. I enjoy just driving the city's various neighborhoods; I love the architecture of even many of the more modest homes.
And I've a number of friends in Los Angeles that I always enjoy looking up.
I'd like to visit Santa Anita, see the Getty, take in the Hearst Mansion, and, hopefully, catch a movie at some of those classic picture palaces that were showing T3 last summer.
Now, if I can only convince my friend Pat to allow me to crash at her place once again. I've told her she's welcome to visit me in NYC anytime she likes, but so far, I'm three visits ahead of her -- and counting.
The Bush administration continues to be exposed as the crooked, bullying, lying bunch of snakes they are. This business of the threatened firing of Richard S. Foster, Medicare's head actuary, if he dared to tell the truth about the cost of the Medicare bill the Republicans forced through a few weeks back is truly beyond the pale.
The administration knowingly lied about the cost of the bill (but, hey, what's a hundred billion dollars between friends?), and many representatives, including not a few Republicans, would definitely have voted against it, had the truth come out.
But the White House made sure the truth didn't come out. In fact, they threatened to fire Foster when they learned that he intended to tell the truth about the cost of the bill.
I honestly don't understand how even the most partisan Republican can continue to support this bunch. Their behavior should be viewed as reprehensible by all Americans, regardless of affiliation.
For more on this sordid tale, visit the Daily Reality Check or this story at the Gadflyer.