The Dollhouse

No, not Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, but the Dollhouse in Walk on the Wild Side (1962) located in New Orleans, made from the 1956 novel by Nelson Algren. The year's 1932, the action begins on the road in East Texas -- Beaumont, by golly. Jane Fonda stars as Twist, the 'bad' runaway girl from the 'home', Lawrence Harvey as Dove, who is in love with prostitute Hallie Gerard, played by Cappuchine, who lives in the NO brothel named the Dollhouse. Why and how this illiterate guy in 1932 meets a highly educated, sophisticated, French artist in West Texas in 1932 is never explained. He also is loved in her twisted way by Twist, who ends up in the Dollhouse too, of course, and by Ann Baxter who plays a chicana who owns a chili joint-gas station that rents little cabin rooms.

Nor is it explained how Hallie became a prostitute, any more than why Dove's on the lam or on the road or out of prison or whatever he is. Hallie vaguely speaks of addiction to 'the easy life.' But anyone who knows anything about prostitution, even the fairly high class sort with a high class - or at least rich and powerful clientel as offered by the Dollhouse, knows better. Hallie seems to have a self-loathing need to degrade and punish herself -- there's some kinky stuff going on in the Dollhouse, with beating and tying up and so on as punishment for bad 'dolls.' There's much hinting that the madame, played by Barbara Stanwyck is a lesbian and seduced Hallie into the Life. I've never read the Algren novel from which this movie is adapted, but from plot summaries the novel's even more batshyte than the movie -- except Hallie makes more sense since she's a mulatta, not a Frenchwoman.

This is pure period melodrama, also movie done as a play, which means endless scenes of people emoting, rather than doing anything. But they do act, as does Fonda -- she acts a poor girl, rather than inhabiting the skin of a poor girl -- so different from how she filled her role as the prostitute Bree, in Klute. Indeed, now that I've seen as much of Walk on the Wild Side as Vaquero and I had patience for -- love fast forward! -- one can see clearly in Bree some of what is merely a hinted muddle with Hallie.

Best line from the movie, Twist to Dove: "You're crazy. You get hungry like a millionaire." He is going to having supper after they'd had breakfast that morning.

Best scene from the movie is Dove talking back to hellfire preacher calling on God to cast him and Hallie into hell : "He won't hear you. Cause you no friend of God or man - standing there hollering hate to the world. God is love. God is mercy and forgiveness. Try preaching that sometime Mr. Preacher. Teach people to forgive, not to crawl in fear. Teach people to love, not hate. preach the good book - preach the truth." That was just before the Code was dropped, and when movie characters could talk back to batshyte xtians on screen.

The best part of the movie is the Sam Bass designed opening credits of a black cat prowling through the Quarter's alleys. Woo. Very cool.

So, is Walk on the Wild Side, the movie, where Whedon & Co. got the idea to call their place the Dollhouse? Though, well, geegolly, it is so obvious in so many ways they didn't really need any inspiration. But the one thing we know for sure about movie - television people, they know their movies.

80's Series Cable Channel: Beauty & The Beast to Falconcrest

CBS American television series reflected upon by an avid British watcher back in her day.

This caught my attention in the London Times because for the last few months I've been watching 80's and early 90's American television miniseries, including two made from Judith Krantz novels (produced, partly written, and filmed by her husband, I presume). They are vastly entertaining effortless watching, of admirably high production and cinemagraphic values -- plus terrific locations. Stacy Keach in the roles of both the artist, Mistral, in Mistral's Daughter (1984), and as Hemingway, in Hemingway (1988), seen fairly close together, is interesting in itself, as the actor convincingly ages from young manhood to old man in both, but in very differently in each role.
The adaptation of James Clavell's Nobel House (1988) remains e my all-time favorite of these, so far. I've enjoyed Shogun, very much, more than once, but the novel was more affecting because it includes more, which is not the case with Nobel House. This is another way to say that many of these miniseries are made from novels written by writers I can't read, like Judith Krantz, but they adapt splendidly to the so-called 'small' screen, when produced, and acted, by professionals. No need here for a great artist: professionalism plus budget, and you get superb entertainment.  I adore superb entertainment; in my opinion there isn't nearly enough of it. And lavish! acres of flowers everywhere, in fields, gardens, and indoors, fabulous clothes and jewels and furs, marvelous architecture, vistas of great beauty that are vistas even when viewed on my computer screen (oversize screen, granted, but still ....).

By the 80's, movies seemed seldom to be made in other countries by US; the television miniseries filled the breach. We evidently achieved home entertainment center television screens of size about this time -- and cable, the internet, tivio, dvds, etc. had not yet taken down the broadcast television networks, which still had the bottomless pit of advertising revenue budgets to beat out anything cable could provide. This year I realized this era of the miniseries is another of television's Golden Ages, and again, one I never saw while it broadcast, but only long past its production era, via dvd -- or as with the Lucille Ball series, via re-runs when I was a kid.

From the Beauty and the Beast section of the London Times article:

Sitting down last weekend for a CBS Drama marathon, I was surprised to discover that, even after 22 years, I could still remember the opening monologue from Beauty and the Beast, delivered by “The Beast” — Vincent — in his ponderously husky voice: “Her name is Catherine. From the moment I saw her, she captured my heart with her beauty, her warmth . . .”

“And her breasts!” I shouted, automatically — our traditional response back in 1987.

God, it’s a weird show. The essential set-up is that there is a half man, half lion (Ron Perlman) living in the sewers, pining after a lonely society chick, Catherine (Linda Hamilton from Terminator). There obviously being a limited number of social occasions when a man-lion can meet a highflying lawyer, Vincent and Catherine have cutely hooked up after an horrific attack leaves her with severe facial lacerations by the side of the road. Vincent takes Catherine to his sewer lair and sews her up — his somewhat primitive handiwork reflecting the fact that he presumably has paws, with no opposable thumbs.

On regaining consciousness, Catherine pulls back Vincent’s cowl, and gasps as the reality of his freakish appearance is finally revealed. Yes, that’s right: he has dry, auburn hair, just like Carol Decker from T’Pau. “How did this happen to you?” she asks, staring at his half-man, half-lion face.

“I have no idea,” Vincent replies, as viewers are compelled to yell, “Your mum done a lion, Vince! She seen the lions at Longleat, innit!” at the television, while rolling their eyes.

For the next two series, the majority of Catherine and Vincent’s relationship is carried out in a haze of intense, unconsummated sexual tension — Catherine’s reticence presumably being at least part-founded on the fear that Vincent makes out cat-style, and will try and do her on the shed roof at the bottom of the garden, while making a series of unpleasant shrieking sounds.Watching it now, Beauty and the Beast looks like the forerunner to the current, highly lucrative Twilight franchise: a psychic, pining, non-penetrative beast, who is obsessed with an otherwise outcast and lonely girl. I could see exactly how I loved it as a virginal, socially outcast teenager. As an adult, however, I found it about as much fun as dry Weetabix. And, anyway, I was only watching Beauty and the Beast while waiting for the big guns: Dynasty and Falcon Crest. Come on! Shoulder pads! Earrings so big they make your head look like a mug tree! Film stock so strobingly orange that when Blake Carrington sits down behind his desk it’s hard to tell where he ends and £10,000 of teak begins! Proper telly.

"Proper telly" indeed.  For me though its not about Falcon Crest, which I've never seen either, or any of its ilk.  It's the miniseries, adapted from novels, which are written, whether I like their style or abilities or not, by WRITERS, giving writers money, to which I say heartily, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAmen!

POLDARK Coming to DVD Alert!

That first series of Poldark (from a series of novels by Winston Graham), with splendid Cornish location landscapes, that was Romantic Hotness back then, when I'd watch it with amiga TB in Albuquerque.

I've been waiting and waiting for this to be on DVD.

Poldark, YES! March 2, 2010!

Zenaida Romeu's Birthday

Luncheon today on the upper east side in honor of Zenaida Romeu' s birthday; at this moment she's about to board the flight that takes her back to Havana, where her family and friends will have another birthday party.  Birthdays are a very big deal in Cuba. The state gives every citizen a cake on his or her birthday, no matter how young or old.

Among the toasts was the one I gave: "To North Dakota and the Fargo Symphony Orchestra for bringing in one of the first Cuban musicans and artists since the Bush regime cut off intellectural and artistic contact between our countries in 2003!"  I also thank our hosts for giving me the honor of mmaking what may well be first toast drunk in Manhattan in honor of North Dakota.  North Dakota, filling the breach between the U.S. and Cuba.  Who would have thought it?

Story here.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

Signs of the Times

It's easy to miss things this time of year, when the calendar is so crowded.

I'm also feeling so lazy. I want to stay home at nights and read. Lately it's the Emperor series by Conn Iggulden, following the life and career of Julius Caesar, while listening to The Kropotkins, a punk/Delta blues, New York-Memphis collaboration band. I fell in love with Lorette Velvette, the lead vocalist last Monday night at the le Poisson Rouge Robert Palmer / Hand of Fatima benefit.  I think this band was formed with me in mind.  Such great lyrics as well as breaking up the drum kit, for starters.



Doubtless when I have to stay home for a while I'll be dying to go out and there won't be any socializing available. But I missed the annual SFWA authors and editors meet-up last night, despite [hangs head] reminder e-mails. Argh. It's always like this, one way or another. Yet, I probably didn't miss anything. I've been to others.

I also failed again today to spend money though I was ready to, wanted to, and need to. Stores seem to be trying to empty out all their merchandise before Thanksgiving weekend; Bed, Bath and Beyond insisted it didn't have any blankets, and I have comforters and duvets and don't want another one, thank you, or pillows or a mattress cover. I want a blanket, damn it! The GAP has absolutely hideous clothes for winter. What were they thinking? The French Connection which I can usually count on refuses to put anything on sale. Everywhere else is out of everything except in petite. The boots are never available in my size. Winter coats are all determined to make one into a twin of the Pillsbury Dough Boy -- they, like so many clothes are all puffle -- i.e. puffs and ruffles both, on the same garment, and why yes, this has infected the coats as well.

I did make a hair appointment and hope it won't be a scary disappointment when all is completed.

Another sign of the current economy: I could have had a walk-in haircut today if I'd wanted it, or tomorrow for that matter. Also the prices have -- dropped. There are two fewer stylists in the salon, and still all the chairs were empty. This, the day before Thanksgiving. This is unheard of, ever, in all my years of living in NYC. Even in little 'beauty parlors' that cater to the older Italian ladies in the neighborhood, and never, ever in the upscale styling salons that have replaced almost all the beauty parlors and proliferated like kudzu down here. The only hair place I saw busy today was Supercuts. This tells us something about the economy that evidently D.C. can't see.

I'm also hearing older shoppers from out-of-town sounding off about how they hate government and don't want any and want to take care of themselves, while their youthful student retail personnel enthusiastically agree.  I couldn't help say to one enthusiastic and loud lady from California going on and on about how much she hates government and can take of herself, "Good.  Let your house burn down in the wildfires, and by the way, don't walk on MY sidewalk that my city government has paid for with MY goddamn taxes."  She was outraged.

More Book-y Stuff: "Pamela," With Vampires

"Fair Hypocrites: Twilight By Way of Pamela":  check it out here.

On the surface, then, it would seem that the similarity between Twilight and Pamela, between Bella and Pamela, ends in their popularity and the mania they inspire(d). But these twin phenomena, one sitting at each end of the history of the novel, I think, share more. By an admittedly cynical and reductive reading, Twilight and Pamela are the same book, the same archetypal female fantasy: a poor or undistinguished girl is chosen as “the one” by a handsome, rich, aristocratic man who sweeps her off her feet and takes her out of her (more or less) grubby, mundane, low-born life. And the cynical reading goes further. These are not merely Cinderella love stories; in fact, they are not love stories at all. By the cynical reading, these novels are only about class, about becoming rich, becoming one of the rarefied beautiful people.