Infomercial

Guaranteed to Make You Thinner!

In the novel Laura by Vera Caspary, the supercilious esthete Waldo Lydecker admits that among his failings are “obesity” and “the softness of pale flesh.” He stands “three inches above six feet,” but “the magnificence of my skeleton,” he tells us, “is hidden by the weight of my flesh.” Lydecker’s description of himself is supported by a reaction to his behavior later in the novel by the detective, Mark McPherson: “I felt like picking up that big hunk of blubber and bouncing him like a ball.”

So, when it came to casting the bloated Lydecker for the famous 1944 film adaptation, who got the juicy role? The decidedly lean Clifton Webb.

***

When Hickey, the main character of Eugene O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh, enters near the end of Act I, he is described in the stage directions as “about fifty, a little under medium height, with a stout, roly-poly figure.” The description continues as follows:

“His face is round and smooth and big-boyish with bright blue eyes, a button nose, a small pursed mouth. His head is bald except for a fringe of hair around his temple and the back of his head.”

Considering this description, who would have been the perfect physical embodiment of Hickey on stage or in the 1973 film version? Why, Don Rickles, of course.

Instead, the most memorable portrayal of Hickey on stage and in a TV adaptation was by Jason Robards, Jr., famous for his lean-and-hungry look, while the 1973 film version featured another unplump Hickey in Lee Marvin.

***

During a respite in the climactic duel between Hamlet and Laertes (Act V, Scene 2) Gertrude offers her son her “napkin” [handkerchief] to “rub thy brows.” Hamlet, she says, is “fat, and scant of breath.” But when was the last time you saw a Ricklesesque Hamlet on stage?

***

The conclusion is clear: If you wish to be thinner, get someone to play you!

Listen . . .

. . . Do you Want to Know a Secret?

What do MI6 [the British Secret Intelligence Service], the CIA, Michael Heseltine [former Tory bigwig], and Yuri Andropov [former Soviet-–and KGB—leader] have in common?

According to convicted art conman John Drewe, they were all involved in a covert international arms deal conspiracy that singled out Drewe as its victim. The jury at his trial did not swallow his conspiracy allegations, and Drewe was found guilty and sentenced to six years in pokey.*

Impressive as Drewe’s covey of conspirators is, it pales beside the litany of plotters supposedly involved in the John F. Kennedy assassination. According to Wikipedia:

“Most [conspiracy spotters] put forth a criminal conspiracy involving parties as varied as the CIA, the KGB, the American Mafia, Mossad, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover, former Vice President Richard Nixon, sitting Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, Cuban president Fidel Castro, anti-Castro Cuban exile groups, the Federal Reserve, the military-industrial complex, representatives of Big Business, or some combination of those entities and individuals.”**

More sober-minded individuals might wonder why—after nearly half a century—at least one insider (say, a KGB defector, a Mafia turncoat, or a disaffected ex-Castroite) has not broken silence. Think of the humongous publisher’s advance for his revelations! But not a peep, not a hint has reached the public’s ear. And that is because there was no conspiracy. Putting together a conspiracy from such a rag-tag collection of mutually-antagonistic people and organizations would have been more daunting than gathering a representative sample of Hatfields and McCoys, Montagues and Capulets for an evening of whist.

Ben Franklin once remarked that three can keep a secret—if two of them are dead. Which observation has led me to the formation of my latest Law:

There are no unknown conspiracies.

Do You Promise Not to Tell?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/non-fiction/article7031926.ece

**http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_F._Kennedy_assassination_cover-up_and_conspiracy_theories

Play Dumb

This is a follow-up to my blog entry of December 6, 2009, “Essence of Cow.”

New research, reported by Miller-McCune [available at http://www.miller-mccune.com/carousel/for-contemporary-art-context-is-counterproductive-9220/],has discovered that “presenting contextual information alongside a work of modern art may be counterproductive in terms of eliciting enjoyment or appreciation.”

This finding supports my contentions in the “Essence of Cow” blog.

The Miller-McCone article sums up the research as follows:

So it appears context does matter — when it is provided via visual imagery rather than words.

In other words, shut up and let the artwork speak for itself—if it can.

Sink or Swim

The Silliest Question Ever Asked

***

In François Truffaut’s film La sirène du Mississipi [sic], known as Mississippi Mermaid in English, (adapted from the novel Waltz Into Darkness by Cornell Woolrich), Jean-Paul Belmondo waits expectantly on dockside for the arrival of the woman he has asked to marry him; they have never met, having found each other through a lonely-hearts advertisement. The woman in the picture he has received from her, a brunette, does not disembark the ship. Rather disheartened, Belmondo returns to his car, where suddenly Catherine Deneuve appears, claiming to be Julie Roussel, his fiancée. The picture Belmondo has is not of her, she says, because she used a photo of a friend of hers. Then Deneuve utters the all-time silliest question (rendered here in English): “You’re not disappointed?”

Bert Lahr Was Right!

SERGIUS. I am no longer a soldier. Soldiering, my dear madam, is
the coward's art of attacking mercilessly when you are strong,
and keeping out of harm's way when you are weak. That is the
whole secret of successful fighting. Get your enemy at a
disadvantage; and never, on any account, fight him on equal
terms.

Arms and the Man is one of George Bernard Shaw’s “Pleasant” plays, one of a set of plays that, according to Shaw, deal “less with the crimes of society, and more with its romantic follies.” In the case of Arms, the romantic folly is the glorification of warfare. There is the romantic vision of a cavalry charge:

CATHERINE (with surging enthusiasm). You can't guess how
splendid it is. A cavalry charge--think of that! He [Sergius] defied our
Russian commanders--acted without orders--led a charge on his
own responsibility--headed it himself--was the first man to
sweep through their guns. Can't you see it, Raina; our gallant
splendid Bulgarians with their swords and eyes flashing,
thundering down like an avalanche and scattering the wretched
Servian dandies like chaff.

And then there is the reality:

MAN [Bluntschli]. You never saw a cavalry charge, did you?

RAINA. How could I?

MAN. Ah, perhaps not--of course. Well, it's a funny sight. It's
like slinging a handful of peas against a window pane: first one
comes; then two or three close behind him; and then all the rest
in a lump.

RAINA (her eyes dilating as she raises her clasped hands
ecstatically). Yes, first One!--the bravest of the brave!

MAN (prosaically). Hm! you should see the poor devil pulling at
his horse.

RAINA. Why should he pull at his horse?

MAN (impatient of so stupid a question). It's running away with
him, of course: do you suppose the fellow wants to get there
before the others and be killed?

Bluntschli, the Swiss professional soldier who has seen it all, is contrasted with Sergius, the romantic amateur who carried out the cavalry charge “like an operatic tenor.” But Sergius does change during the course of the play, and, under the influence of Bluntschli, has learned the truth about soldiering quoted at the top of the page.

***

“Soldiering . . . is the coward's art of attacking mercilessly when you are strong.”

This statement is not just true about soldiering. Muggers are cowards; using force to wrest pocketbooks from little old ladies is the act of a coward. Indeed, I believe we can categorize all weapons-carrying criminals as cowards. Schoolyard bullies are cowards (the riposte “pick on someone your own size!” points us to that fact). And what are gun-*or knife-toting hoods except bullies writ large.

***

And what then are lions and tigers and other such predatory beasts? When a lion jumps a wildebeest or a zebra (and always the weakest of the herd), it is engaged in the act of a coward, attacking mercilessly an animal that it overmatches. Would it attack that zebra if the latter had fiercer claws and sharper teeth? No. Lions are cowards—so why then do we celebrate the “lion-hearted”?

***

*I’ll leave the Freudian aspects of this to others.

“Which of you shall we say doth love us most?”

“Which of you shall we say doth love us most?”

With these words King Lear, determined to shed himself of the cares of state and to divide his kingdom among his three daughters, settles back to bask in the fulsomeness of praise. His two eldest daughters, Goneril and Regan, do not disappoint him. “Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter,” Goneril begins.

“Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e'er loved, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.”

Regan, an excellent poker player, sees her sister:

“Sir, I am made
Of the self-same metal that my sister is,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find she names my very deed of love.”

And then raises her:

“Only she comes too short: that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses;
And find I am alone felicitate
In your dear highness' love.”

These hyperbolic phrases come from the mouths of two daughters who will prove to be among the cruelest of Shakespeare’s characters. After Lear has turned over all his kingdom to them, they will bar the castle door against him, forcing their father to spend the night battling a raging storm.*

Lear then turns to his youngest daughter, Cordelia, and asks her: “[W]hat can you say to draw/A third [part of the kingdom] more opulent than your sisters? Speak.”

Cordelia’s answer is “Nothing.”

***

We will come back to King Lear, but let’s move on to Hamlet for a little bit.

In Act V, Hamlet has returned to Denmark, unbeknownst to all but his faithful friend Horatio. In the graveyard they spy an approaching funeral party and hide themselves. It is the interment of Ophelia, but before the burial can be completed, Laertes, Ophelia’s brother, leaps into the open grave, embraces his sister’s coffin and exclaims:

“Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,
Till of this flat a mountain you have made,
To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head
Of blue Olympus.”

Hamlet reveals himself, then leaps into the grave and grapples with Laertes, until they are pulled apart. But what exactly is it that impels the Prince to come out of hiding and make his return known to all the court?

Hamlet:

“What is he whose grief
Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand
Like wonder-wounded hearers? . . .
Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'It mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.”

The important words, I think, are the verbs “prate,” mouth,” and “rant.” Hamlet, who has proclaimed, “I loved Ophelia,” is offended by the hyperbolic prating, mouthing, and ranting of Laertes. And so he mocks Laertes: “forty thousand brothers/Could not with all their quantity of love,/Make up my sum.”

The hyperbolic, then, is always suspect: it can be the resort of insincere and hypocritical persons to cover up their real feelings; or if expressed by one with true feelings, it will undermine those very feelings. As Hamlet well knows, true feelings must be matched by proportionate words and deeds.

***

Back to Cordelia, who will remain faithful to her father until her death.

After refusing to match her sisters’ hyperbole, Cordelia is finally impelled to enlarge upon her answer of “Nothing”:

“Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less. . . .
Good my lord.
You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.”

The true daughter’s proportionate response reminds us of the Commandment:

HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER.

_______________________________________

*Cordelia later remarks about her sisters’ cruelty:

“Mine enemy's dog,/Though he had bit me, should have stood that night/Against my fire.”

(Adaptation of a speech not given)

CLUCK

The Hut on Fowl’s Legs: Baba-Yaga

For the visual accompaniment I used printed
fabrics used by Southern African witch doctors,
known as sangomas, who practice a
form of traditional healing. They perform a
holistic and symbolic form of healing,
embedded in the beliefs of their culture that
ancestors in the afterlife guide and protect
the living. Sangomas are called to heal, and
through them ancestors from the spirit
world can give instruction and advice to heal
illness, social disharmony, and spiritual
difficulties. In many cases a ritual sacrifice of
an animal is performed, usually a chicken.
...
The visual component essentializes the
meaning of Baba Yaga in a formalistic
sense, thus beginning to touch on aspects
of the spiritual world and its meaning in
contemporary society.

***

Thus Robin Rhode, “Visual Artist,” explaining his video accompaniment of pianist Leif Ove Andsnes’s playing of one section of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. The collaboration between the two men is part of “Pictures Reframed,” which had its debut at Alice Tully Hall on Friday, November 13, 2009.

One critic who was on hand that night suggests the following alternative (perhaps deeper?) reading of the video accompaniment:


The first sight we see is a chicken running across a barnyard. A chicken—clearly a representation of the Big Questions of life: “Which came first—the chicken or the egg?” and “Why did the chicken cross the road?” This chicken, skipping along, is carefree—but suddenly it is replaced by a two-dimensional fowl, bordered by a circle, on a red field that turns out to be a cloth. No longer at large, the hemmed-in chicken is a prisoner—but is it of red state Soviet Union or red state Mississippi? Before that question can be resolved, however, the chicken reappears on a new cloth, this one black; the chicken is now either surrounded by deepest night or pirates. But again before the issue can be resolved, the black cloth is gone and the chicken, still ringed by a circle, is now on a field of white. Surely, this connotes the frigid purity of a bird that will never reproduce, or maybe it is just lying frozen in a virgin field of snow. Either way, the video has taken us on the full journey from birth to death. Cluck.


(Another critic offered a reading of the video based on Col. Sanders—but that is too frivolous a suggestion to be given serious critical attention.)