Sunset Boulevard

I saw Sunset Boulevard for the first time last week.  Oh. My. God. What a great movie!  In case anyone in the Western world isn't familiar with it, the story centers around Norma Desmond (played by silent film legend Gloria Swanson) , a washed-up silent film star who dreams of a big Hollywood comback, and Joe Gillis (played by William Holden), a screenwriter whose career has never taken off and who is pretty much down to his last few bucks.  Fate brings Joe to Norma's crumbling mansion when he hides in her driveway to avoid reposession of his car.  Joe is drawn into Norma's demented world of faded glory like a fly stepping into a spiderweb.

In other hands, this could have been a very different movie -- but the actors give the characters dimension. Watching it, we believe that Joe isn't just a gigolo who enjoys expensive gifts and a lavish lifestyle paid for by a rich older woman.  We believe he really cares about Norma, who is lonely and lost as well as demented and living in the past.

Billy Wilder's directing is done with a very deft hand -- two parts film noir, one part monster movie.  There is a montage where Norma undergoes a series of bizarre youth-regaining treatments that can't help but make the viewer think of Frankenstein's monster. In heavily shadowed scenes, the character of Max von Mayerling (played by Erich von Stroheim) is gradually revealed as a sort of Dr. Frankenstein.  He is Norma's servant, but he also has an unhealthy amount of control over her.  We begin to wonder what payoff he is getting by lying to her and playing along with her crazy fantasies.

Part of what made this movie so great for me is that I've seen a few silent movies, as well as the early talkie The Taming of the Shrew (with Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, both of whom had also been silent movie stars).  In The Taming of the Shrew, Fairbanks and Pickford absolutely chew the scenery.  Never before had I seen such heavy-handed overacting, but it showed that the very talents that made great silent films did not translate well to talking pictures.  It made Norma's plight more understandable and her devotion to dramatic facial expressions and gestures sad instead of laughable.  Gloria Swanson gives a tour de force performance as a woman who is like a screen image instead of a human being.

Edith Head did a great job with the costumes.  Most of the characters wear everyday clothes that were fashionable at the time. Norma's clothes, like her personality, are larger than life. They are based on fashionable looks of 1950, but Edith Head added scarves and head wraps, fur stoles and pounds of diamond jewelry -- Norma never completely lets go of the fashions of her glory days. Max is creepy as a manservant in a quasi-military uniform. Norma and Max's clothes reflect that they are living in a world of their own, for the most part oblivious to the fact that life has gone on without them outside the walls of the mansion.

Sunset Boulevard.  I absolutely loved it.


 

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

The Pere Lachaise Cemetery is famous for having a lot of famous people buried in it. For most Americans of my age group, however, its famous for being the final resting place of Jim Morrison. It is also the final destination of Edith Piaf, Colette (she wrote Gigi, which became the movie musical with the most disturbing opening song ever), Sarah Bernhardt, Stephane Grappelli, Isadora Duncan, Getrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Marcel Proust, and many others.

Marcel Marceau is buried here. Whether or not he is doing "I'm stuck in a box" for all eternity is unknown.

This is the final resting place of Oscar Wilde, covered in graffiti and lipstick kisses. I hate that he died at the age of 46 due to ill health and alcoholism caused, at least in part, by having been imprisoned from 1895-1897 for homosexual behavior. I love that among his last recorded words is the statement "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go."

Victor Noir is another famous person, but he is famous more for the manner of his death (he was shot by the great-nephew of the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte) and the fact that after his death, his tomb became a fertility symbol because of the way the sculptor of his statue depicted his genital area. Apparently, women believe that by leaving flowers in his hat, kissing him on the lips, and rubbing his "business," they will be ensured fertility. That's why part of the statue is shiny and the rest has a patina.


I took a picture of this guy because he looked like he would have been a fun person to know. As it turns out, after a little research (I love Wikipedia) I discovered I was right. This is Leon Thery, who was a famous French race car driver at the turn of the 20th century. He drove his first race from Paris to Bordeaux in 1899 at the breakneck speed of 19 miles per hour.


The cemetery is huge, with boulevards and lanes cutting through its 118 acres. Even so, you are pretty much guaranteed to get lost.


It's also easy to wander off the designated paths. At least, that's the excuse I gave when my map-reading skills caused us to walk all over the place.

I was glad to see that Portuguese people were well represented, displaying the quiet good taste for which Portugal is renowned.

I did not break into this little prayer chapel, I just took a picture of what was inside: a picture of someone's grandma and a little plaque with a remembrance poem on it.

The Foodie found my interest in the insides of the chapels creepy, but I thought this one was lovely.




Speaking of creepy, The Cop drew my attention to this grave. I get that the couple is supposed to be together forever, but hands popping out of the top of a coffin are a bit much. Also, she's wearing a watch. Why? Does she have an appointment?

I thought this particular spot looked like a little patch of heaven. Not a bad place to spend eternity.

Where's Auntie: Jet-Lagged Edition

My first day in California.

My brother took me to the Griffith Observatory to get an overview of Los Angeles. I thought the building was really pretty, so I took this detail shot.

The southeast view from the observatory (so my brother tells me; I am directionally challenged).



The view to the north, with the San Gabriel mountains in the background.

We left the observatory and drove down to Hollywood. I think that in my mind I had it confused with Beverly Hills because I was surprised at how tacky Hollywood was. I mean that in a good way.

I enjoyed seeing Mann's Chinese Theater, where apparently they had a big opening last night for a scary movie starring Anthony Hopkins that I guarantee I will never see.

This is a random elephant on top of a building. I have no explanation for it, but I felt duty bound to share its coolness with you, gentle readers. You're welcome.

Speaking of cool, look whose star I found!

Also speaking of cool, my brother tells me that this very spot, on the corner of Silver Lake and Sunset, is the hipster center of the universe. I could feel myself becoming cooler by the moment while we were there, but alas, the effects are already wearing off.

In the afternoon, we went to a Mexican marketplace that had a plaza nearby where Mexican musicians and native dancers were performing. A guy was singing a song that appeared to be a cautionary tale about getting involved with a "hot woman" while his friends in native regalia filmed it to post on YouTube. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Our Little Secret

Don't tell anyone, but I've been cheating on Gene Kelly.
First of all, there's Farnk Sinatra. Not the Frank Sinatra of Anchors Aweigh - although he was adorable in it - but the Frank of the 50s. By then he was divorced from Ava Gardner and had been knocked around a little by life. He came across on-screen as a world-weary man in need of a good woman's love. It made him irresistibly sexy.
Then there's Errol Flynn. Handsome, swashbuckling Errol Flynn who always got the woman, on screen and off. When I saw him leaping around in green tights in The Adventures of Robin Hood, I looked at my cat and said, "Is it getting warm in here, or is Mommy having a hot flash?" The guy had great quads and a gorgeous smile.
Ladies' men and world-weary brooders. Throw in the emotionally unavailable, and that pretty much sums up my dating history.

Mamma Mia! That's A Really Bad Movie!

I watched Mamma Mia! this past weekend, expecting to love it. I’d heard good things about it. The show took Broadway and the country by storm. I have been known, in the privacy of my car, to crank up “Dancing Queen” and car dance.

With a movie musical, I expect the plot to be simple and secondary to the singing and dancing. I expect a happy ending. In terms of cuteness of plot, Mamma Mia! did not disappoint. But I don’t think I’ve seen so much bad singing and dancing in one place in my whole life.

It was painful to watch, like a high school talent show when the fat kid with pimples who is a sweetheart but his mom irons his jeans with a crease – which, even without pimples and extra weight is social suicide – gets up on the stage to play “Lady of Spain” on the accordion. I mean, you may have been friendly toward him before because he is actually a very nice person, but now you find yourself desperately hoping that nobody remembers you sat with him at lunch a couple of weeks ago. Because you have enough to deal with without the stink of accordion music on your person.

That’s how I felt about Mamma Mia! I love movie musicals. But the whole point of the musical is the MUSIC. The plots are supposed to be thin and the viewer is supposed to willingly believe the premise that whenever you’re feeling blue, a rousing tap number will make you feel better. (I actually do believe this, whether I’m watching a movie or not.)

I theorize that on Broadway, and in the road show, the stars were chosen for actual singing and dancing ability. From what I can tell, the producers of Mamma Mia! the movie chose stars with a big box office draw and forgot to check if they could actually sing or dance. Whoops.

I think Colin Firth may have ruined Mr. Darcy for me forever. And as much as I love Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan, I’ve got enough to deal with without having to hear them sing.

It's Official: I Have A Crush On A Dead Man

And by "dead man," I don't mean someone who is lousy in bed, or incredibly dumb, or even on death row (although, at my age I suppose I can't be too fussy about any of those characteristics - except, of course, the first one). I mean a person who died in 1996.

That man is Gene Kelly. Okay, so the old-school pictures don't necessarily translate well into pixels, but that is a dreamy-looking guy. He was an accomplished singer, dancer, actor, director, choreographer, and producer. I'd be willing to bet that he was kind to his mother and never missed an opportunity to help widows and orphans. He just seems like that kind of guy on the silver screen - and movies never lie to us, do they?

How this infatuation came about is that I recently saw The Drowsy Chaperone at the Providence Performing Arts Center, and not only was the show awesome but it also reminded me how much I have always loved musicals.

A few weeks and one NetFlix subscription later, I watched Singin' In The Rain and I was in love. Gene did the choreography as well as some very fine singing, dancing, and acting in that movie, which led me to watch An American In Paris - a film he also choreographed. Now I've got On The Town and Gene Kelly: Anatomy of a Dancer waiting for me at home. Oh, and I'm also reading a biography of the man.

Clearly, I am obssessed.

Someone recently asked me what I find so attractive about him (okay, fine, it was my therapist, but it might be a question a friend would ask). Aside from his - excuse the cliche - movie star good looks, he was also incredibly talented in so many areas. He seems to have been one of those people who set a goal for himself and didn't rest until he reached it - someone who strove for excellence all the time. I admire that, even though (or maybe because) I am someone who is so much more easily defeated.

Then there's the dancing. Great day in the morning, the dancing! His style was athletic, energetic, and definitely masculine. He was incredibly strong, and yet graceful. Watching him, I am always amazed at how easy he makes it look.

I took ballet for twelve years. I know that most, if not all, of what Gene Kelly did was not easy at all. I also took tap for one year, but at age 30 and after all those years of ballet, it turns out that my hips were too turned out and I was the worst tap-dancer ever. I could perform the steps, but I could never get the noises right, which is sort of the whole point of tapdancing, don't you think?

On one hand, it proved that my mother may have known what she was doing when she refused to let me take tap when I was a kid because she didn't want to listen to the noise. On the other hand, I believe that the only time to take tap along with ballet is when you're a kid and building neural pathways like nobody's business. Which, I learned in the first chapter of Gene Kelly's biography, is exactly what he did and look where it got him.

Gene Kelly wasn't perfect. I've read enough on IMDb to know that he was a perfectionist and he could be a tyrant on a movie set. Apparently, he was the sort of man people either loved or loathed. He made Debbie Reynolds cry, for pete's sake! But somehow, amidst all the movie-musical glamour, that makes him more human. He worked hard and expected the same from the people who worked with him. I think most of us can relate to that far more than we can to many of the spoiled and self-indulgent movie stars of today.

Like the narrator in The Drowsy Chaperone, I've always thought that life would be infinitely nicer if, when I'm having a bad day, some friends would rally around and sing me a song about cheering up because tomorrow will certainly be better. Or if, instead of negotiating traffic after a long day at work, I could join my fellow Newporters in a rousing production number designed to leave us all feeling happy and refreshed.

So maybe a lot of my love for Gene Kelly has to do with the characters he played, and the fact that musicals always had a happy ending - which, as we know, is often not the case in real life.

Then again, it could be this simple: all that dancing gave the man a really fine ass.