In Honor Of The 110^th Birthday Of The Late Legendary Private Investigator Phillip Marlowe-An Encore Interview With Dotty Malone Back In 1978-The Last Living Link To The Fame Shamus Who Has Passed Away At 98

By Seth Garth as told by Dorothy “Dotty” Malone

[Back in 1978 Seth Garth, then a young stringer at American Film Gazette did a piece in honor of the late famous private detective Phillip Marlowe who was then being feted on his 70^th birthday. (Marlowe had passed away some years before of some say hubris, drink and a serious cocaine addiction.) As part of his research into some of Marlowe’s more famous cases he ran across Dotty Malone who had at one time involved with Marlowe in a case, and as he dug deeper maybe more. Ms. Malone was in any case the last living link to the famous Sternwood case which first brought Marlowe to wide public attention, some say notoriety when he married Sternwood’s older daughter, Vivian shortly after Marlowe tied up the loose ends, the loose ends that counted which was to save an old man grief before the end, before he went to his rest concerning his younger wayward daughter Carmen. The name may not mean much now in super highway times, now generally or in Los Angeles where the case unfolded, but in that old-pre-World War II town he carried a lot of weight, had pull. Reason: General Sternwood was the guy who practically invented the La Brea tar pits which made his fortune. That insured plenty of newspaper coverage and cover-up as well depending on how the wily old man wanted things done.

So as a young up and coming reporter Seth interviewed Ms. Malone, let her tell what she knew of the Sternwood story from her vantage point. Recently Seth received word that Ms. Malone whom he had not seen in many years had passed away at her home in Brentwood where she lived for mainly years at 98. He went into his files to see if he still had the Malone interview, He did have a copy and we decided that it would honor both Ms. Malone and Mr. Marlowe to have an encore presentation of her interview which gives a very different view of the Sternwood case than the police logs or the newspapers had at the time-Greg Green, site manager]

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Sure, I knew Phillip Marlowe, knew him from the Sternwood case which may not mean too much now with about twenty million stories out in the urban sprawl but did when a guy with money, a guy like old Sternwood,    more money than Midas some said after he hit pay-dirt with those stinking La Brea tarpits which put him on easy street. And gave him enough pull with the P.D. and with the L.A. Times to play whatever angle he was playing in whatever way he wanted. Originally, and I will tell you how in a minute, I only knew that the General had hired Marlowe, everybody called him Marlowe and that is the way he wanted to be called, to do some small chore, clean up the mess, for him around the antics his younger daughter who even I knew was a wild one, knew she frequented and was photographed at splashy Hollywood venues and did plenty of what today would be called kinky things with people in Hollywood. Some well-known actors and actresses, married and single, too who you would be surprised if I told you their names since you work for a film publication. You know dope, sex, strange rituals, and all you can figure it out. It was not until later that I found out the details, the details that put the case in the cold files and off the front pages of anything but the L.A. editions of the scurrilous Inquirer.

It was strictly a matter of happenstance that I would wind up meeting Marlowe, getting involved even as small a part as I had in what happened. I had come out West from my Maryland home after graduating from Bryn Mawr, mainly to get away from my straight-laced family and with the idea unlike most girls who came to Hollywood then, now too, not of becoming a film actor but a screenwriter since I was fascinated by some work that William Faulkner and Booth Tarkington had done with screenplays. I was pretty good looking, except for having to wear glasses all the time for bad eyes which would have cut down my chances of a film career if I had wanted to go that route. In those days wearing glasses, young women wearing glasses, was a subject of some social scorn once viper short story writer Dorothy Parker made everybody aware of the stigmata with her probably drunken remark that “guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” 

What I didn’t know, was kind of shocked at, was that there were a million girls, guys too, who wanted to be screenwriters and so I learned the hard way the way around the Hollywood studios. As you might guess, since you are with a film magazine, the way forward in this business with few exceptions is through sex. Everybody, at least everybody in the business knows that to get ahead you have to what we used to call “put out,” have sex, male or female, with some bastard to get in the studio before a camera or the writing room. I was naive enough for a while to hold out, to stay a virgin. Because Bryn Mawr was an all- women’s college I didn’t have much sexual experience, had never “gone all the way” as one of my daughter’s asked me in one of our candid mother-daughter talk-fests although I had some lesser sexual encounters. It was not until I hit Hollywood and started hanging with young actors who hung around the same places I did to try to figure out how the hell to get inside though studio gates that I went “all the way.” All the way the first time with Rory Calhoun, who when I knew him before he became a star was simply Jeff Mahoney. We remained friends ever after until his second marriage, still talk now and again. 

That is the background to how I met Marlowe, met him when I was working in a high brow book store on Sunset Boulevard while I was waiting to get into the studios, get into some writing assignment. I remember it was a rainy day, unusual for that time of year in L.A. and I had just practically thrown out a couple of young girls from Hollywood High School who had heard, correctly, that the bookstore had some interesting high-side erotica for sale. Had heard it from some boys and were curious. Since they were too young to look at such material I kicked them out after they started badgering me. Now to set the record straight especially in like of what was going on with the younger Sternwood daughter Acme Books sold strictly literary erotica which may or may not have had pictures alongside, For example, we carried the Kama Sutra, had it right on the shelves. Since smutty books come into the story I wanted to get that straight.

This guy with a rained-splattered trench coat, you know the ones that guys like Humphrey Bogart made famous in I think Casablanca with the belt buckle to cinch the whole affair, dripping soft felt hat, wearing a suit, brown although not high end, not from what I could tell, short to medium high, older and as he approached me as I was straightening up a book bin of overstocks I noticed he had a craggy face, kind of handsome in a way. (To set the record straight I mentioned to Marlowe in a funny manner that he seemed kind of short to be a private detective after he introduced himself. He smirked and said he had had enough of that kind of talk that day since the young Sternwood girl, Carmen, ahd said the same thing when he went out to that first interview at the Sternwood mansion. He then said that didn’t seem to stop Carmen at all since he then tried to do a lap dance on him when he was standing. I laughed a knowing laugh.) He startled me by asking me some questions about rare books mainly because he no more looked like a rare book aficionado than the man in the moon. When I mentioned that fact after answering his questions about specific rare editions he noted that the young gal at the reference room in the Hollywood library had told him the same thing. I also found out later, much later, that she had given him her telephone number on the basis of his reply about helping him get through the books. I also found out that after he left the bookstore he went to the library to pick her up and I guess she showed him quite time. She had still been pissed off at him when she informed me of this later because after he had had his way with her he had left, said he was on a case.                          

That is when Phillip, I call him Phillip now that he is gone but Marlowe  then like everybody else, laid out the story about how he was working for a wealthy guy up in the hills where the wealthy lived then in their above the grimy air mansions and without mentioning any names then said the guy was being shaken down by the bookseller across the street at Geiger’s Rare Books and Antiques over some stuff that one of his daughters had gotton caught up in. When he went to see “what was what,” to cram the shakedown, this book clerk, this Agnes, I will get to her later, her and her relationship with Phillip after her various guys, protectors fell down on the job was as clueless as he was about rare books. So he came over to see what I knew, whether the operation was legitimate or was it a front for from what he saw a “dirty book” racket to high-end customers. I mentioned that he must have grown up in my religion, Catholic, because nobody I knew except them used the words “dirty book” rather than pornography or sex books. He said I was correct and could a co-religionist help him by identifying this mad monk Geiger.

I said I would help when Geiger came out of the store. Then something came over me, maybe it was that funny rain, maybe it was boredom looking forward to a dull afternoon of cataloging a new supply of titles and maybe it was just my time to break out. I don’t know but I suddenly gave him my best come hither look and he knew exactly what I meant by my remark and look. Said he had a pint of whisky, bonded, going to waste and that was that. I put the “Closed” sign on the front door and we went into the back room where I had my desk. Oh yes, how could I forget this. I told you already I have to wear glasses and he mentioned couldn’t I take then off since he was well aware of the Dorothy Parker line. I went to the mirror, fixed myself up a bit put on some new lipstick and went back to my drink. His eyes bulged when he saw me. I don’t have to write a story about what happened that afternoon do I just know my dress was pretty messed up above my knees before we were done. When it started to get dark and rainier, I noticed that Geiger was coming out of his place with his so-called chauffer, but everybody knew his boyfriend. Phil said he had to leave and would get back to me. I knew he wouldn’t, still I felt like a woman, a real woman for one of the first times and was ready to chalk it up to experience. (I was also glad as hell Rory had broken me in since Phil could be gentle in some ways but a cave man in others-in sexual ways.)

In any case after that afternoon I kept tabs on the story. Through the newspapers, through a few people I knew including the store owner who knew what Geiger had been up to since his own daughter had been trapped in the vicious drug, sex and pornography tomb, pillow talk and checking in occasionally with the cop on the beat who knew the chief police department guy, a guy named Bernie Olds who got Phil the job with Sternwood in the first place since they had worked together in the D.A. office before Marlowe got canned for going around some rule, around some honcho who got his claws clipped.

I would not have mentioned this back when I was interested in the case, kept tabs on the players, on all the moving parts but I also knew a couple of hat check, cigarette and photography girls who worked in the Club Luna, no holds barred anything goes places on the outskirts of town where the Sternwood sisters, Vivian and Carmen, who were what the now gentle old general had nightmares about what he had spawned hung their hats. The reason I knew them goes back to when I was earnestly trying to be a screenwriter, trying to get into the film business and these young women were also trying to the same and like me were skimming working other jobs until that proverbial ship came. I should also mention that one of them, maybe two, the twins, Cecilia and Shirley, probably went to bed with our Phillip, although from what was told to me by the hat check girl, Pamela, who I had roomed with when I first came west it didn’t last long because Phil was kind of rough with them, thinking they were on the make and that was that. I could see that such women would be repelled by what was the ugly side of the craggy-faced handsome man.

By the way Seth since I noticed you didn’t pursue the question whether it was out of some silly chivalry for an old lady or fear of what I might come up with that “pillow talk,” bedroom late night after sweating up the sheets if it was typical L.A. night was a serious source of finding out stuff that never made the papers. Never made the papers because a young reporter named Ray Chandler, a member of one of the Chandler branches that ran the L.A. Times then took his orders from above, from some uncle who squashed whatever he could since he used to play tennis with the General in Bel Air in the old days when both were sprightlier. Ray was on the story from the beginning, from the Geiger hit and I had met him when he was rummaging around seeing what people in various shops knew about Geiger’s rackets and he came in to see me. I told him what I knew which then was not much more than he knew but somehow his manner and my idea that maybe I could get in the studios through writing as a reporter, or, face it sleeping with a reporter got him angle asked for date. Later he would take me down to his family’s cottage (a semi-mansion but he always called it a cottage) in La Jolla on the weekends and I would rifle around his study desk and get whatever information he was holding back from me. By the end of our relationship which didn’t survive much past the conclusion of the case I knew as much as he did about the goings on across L.A. to smother the case or really try to solve the damn thing.        

After Phillip had left my store that rainy afternoon he headed across the street to his automobile and trailed Geiger and that boyfriend to his house out in the Edgewood neighborhood, not a good or bad neighborhood then but a place where the houses where far enough apart that Geiger could conduct his little racket in some privacy. According to very late filed police report Phillip had staked the place out seeing what was about. What was about was one Carmen Sternwood coming to get her dope, a thing called laudanum, basically opium cut with ether if it is done right from what I heard, having never gotten beyond jimson, weed, you know marijuana that you can find anywhere now, really knocks you out. Which fit nicely into Geiger’s operation since he would take his “dirty pictures” from a hidden camera while someone like Carmen was doing her Balinese strip. From what I knew, heard about Carmen she might have done her dance on the Pacific Coast Highway at dead sun noon as long as some man was watching but the laudanum probably made sense to a weasel like Geiger.                       

Then out of nowhere the shit hit the fan, excuse my English, as shots rang out in the rain-swept night. Marlowe, Phillip, headed in to find Geiger dead as a doornail on the floor and Carmen half-dressed sucking her thumb as two unidentified cars sped away. I am not sure, or at least I don’t remember whether Phillip, took a run at Carmen, had his way with her in the old-timey expression, that night or just cleaned up the place of any evidence she had been there. Maybe both in any case nobody heard about Geiger’s demise for a while except I did see Phillip’s car across the street in front of Geiger’s the next day and then saw a station wagon with Agnes and some guy in it and that he had hailed a cab, a cab with a female driver which was a novelty in those days even for Hollywood usually doubling down as a way for certain women to do their other business, their prostitution if you must know, without the problem of irate landlords and seedy rooms. I would later find out in a strange way, strange if hailing that very same cab and female cabbie one night when I was closing up the book store and on the ride home she as much as said he had what she called “curled his toes,” Phillip’s, after doing the tail job once his name got around as crackerjack private detective. I am not sure whether she said he was strictly for tough nights or something like that but I do know that I shared no feelings of sisterhood with her.

This is probably the time to step back a little and see why hailing that cab and following that station wagon had anything to with helping General Sternwood or his wayward daughter out of a mess. The original reason General Sternwood had asked Phillip to do his work was that he was being bribed by Geiger over Carmen’s gambling debts and was trying to decide whether to pay or not. That is the front story and made sense since the guy in that station wagon with Agnes was a grifter named Joe Brody who was in the habit of putting the bite on plenty of people, either independently or for one Eddie Mars. Mars a name I did not know at the time was the real kingpin behind every evil known to man that happened in that town, in all of Southern California really, and as I would subsequently find out from that bevy of employees I mentioned earlier owned the Club Luna where the Sternwood young women held forth. Moreover Mars was the backer behind the scenes for Geiger’s sleaze ball operation which when exposed had dragged in half the young women not only in rancid Hollywood but among the “best” families, the so-called elite. The hush would be on in that case even if General Sternwood had not called in his chips. So Phillip tagged this Joe Brophy or thought he had only Carmen looking for her nude photos showed up and fouled up the works. Or tried to. Here is where things got unglued on that front. That boyfriend of Geiger’s thought Joe had wasted his lover that rainy night and as a result decided to bang-bang Joe. Done. Boyfriend done too since Marlowe wrapped him up with a bow before long and made him a special delivery packet at the local P.D. station. Work for the old General finished and without disturbing too many things.                  

That was the front story but the back, the real reason that the getting senile old General wanted Marlowe’s services was to get a tag on a guy named Rusty Regan who had been before he disappeared a while before, he said about a month, Vivian would say a couple of months, had been something like the General’s confidante, best friend. Had blown town and allegedly had run off with Eddie Mars’ wife in the process. Phillip  figured if he found Rusty then he would get a serious lead on the “who” and the “why” of the Geiger-Brody killings. Of course, while all of this work was going on Phil was playing footsies with older daughter Vivian, at first he said to see where she fit in the picture. Was he going to have to like his friend from the D.A.s office now working as a P.I. up in San Francisco Sam Spade and sent her over when she got him in too much of a jam. This is where Eddie Mars comes more clearly into the picture. He was the backing, the protection for Geiger’s “dirty picture” racket taking a nice cut. Taking cuts of a million other things from women to dope and back as well as even more sinister stuff. All the while looking like your average businessman using the Club Luna as a front for the whole operation. Slick, very slick. Vivian had made what even she would later admit a wrong devil’s bargain with Eddie because he held everything, he could over her (including a few tumbles in the hay while that wife was supposedly away with Regan and Marlowe wasn’t looking). Even now though every time though I think about that Club Luna and those former friends of mine, that hat check and cigarette girl sister act, who took a run at Marlowe knowing that I had been with him before them. 

Funny through all of this Carmen was making her own moves, trying to figure out where she stood in the mess. Of course she headed to Marlowe’s door whatever she thought of him (according to Vivian not much, said he was too ugly to be handsome but that was no bar to a man trap like her) And of course she had her way with him, including getting him to get some cash from Eddie Mars on account at his crooked gambling tables. Although the rest of the tale is pretty straight up let me give you the details because the whole thing shifts to Eddie Mars and his henchmen, especially his “hit man” some bad ass names Carlos something I forget the last name and it is not important because he had wasted some poor sucker Joe who was fronting for that Agnes who worked for Geiger and had been Brophy girlfriend. Women like her always get somebody to take then under protection and under the covers even if they bitch and moan about all their so-called tough breaks. Needless to say, Phillip played along with Agnes for two reasons-one to get her in the sacks since she was pretty good -looking for a tramp and she had information about the whereabouts of Eddie Mars’ wife. I don’t know what happened to Agnes probably found another Joe after she found out Phillip was just there for a tumble and ran that guy into the ground before moving on again.          

That Agnes information proved to be invaluable, although if Phillip had headed to the nearest cop house he could have found out that at the address Agnes had given him there was a garage run by a dopehead named Art Huck. This was another one of Eddie’s operations, hot cars, so he knew, had known all along where his wife had been. Philip really only had to figure out the why of the ruse and the still pressing question for old man Sternwood of where Regan was. At the house after some fuss he found both Eddie’s wife Rhonda and Vivian. Oh yeah, and that savage Carlos who was ready to put a few slugs into Phillip’s head if that was what the boss wanted. Except Phillip through some quick action by Vivian got to him first. That sealed the deal between them as I will explain in a minute. The whole thing had been set up, set up with too many moving parts really, between Vivian and Eddie to cover for the fact that dope-addled Carmen had shot Regan when he would not tumble to her advances. That would be Phillips’ excuse for that tumble he had had with Carmen when he first went out to the Sternwood mansion and Carmen tried to do that lap dance while he was standing up.     

Although the reason for the elaborate cover-up was clear to him now Eddie was still a threat to him, and now to Vivian since a guy like Eddie ould definitely get burned up when he heard that his high-priced hit man had been turned to mush by Phillip’s firepower. I remember reading this part, the end of Eddie Mars (although not the end of some gangster’s control of all the evils in Southern California, Guy Madison moved up the food chain and things went on as usual without missing a beat). Marlowe and Vivian had hightailed it to Geiger’s now empty house (remember Eddie owned the joint) to hold a conference with Eddie. Phillip though had faked out where their location was expecting Eddie to think he would get there first and set up a very fatal ambush for the pair. Eddie, and his eternal bodyguards waiting outside to execute the ambush, got a big surprise though when he discovered Phillip got there first and sent out some shots to alert Eddie’s guys. Phillip then forced Eddie out the door to his well-deserved fate of being riddled with machinegun bullets by his own henchmen. Nice, right.     

That wrapped up Eddie. The fate of the others. Well Carmen was put in some private hush-hush mental hospital, stayed for a few months and then headed to San Diego where she was found dead about a year later out on some pier after having had an overdose of heroin and half her clothes ripped off. Eddie’s wife, after a short clandestine affair with Phillip, headed back East and into oblivion. Vivian and Phillip as you know were married shortly after the close of the case although as you also should know, or have heard about, the marriage didn’t take and there was a huge court case over the divorce. The General, old Sternwood, well he went to what some detective fiction writer called the big sleep. That is all I can tell you. Thanks for listening.  

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[The following addendum to the Dorothy Malone interview was not included in the piece published back in 1979 for the simple fact that I could not verify most of it before the upcoming publication date. In those days unlike what is increasingly happening in the publishing business today maybe reflecting the influence of social media you checked your sources, or your assertions didn’t see the light of day, usually. Ms. Malone’s statement that after the Marlowe-Sternwood divorce she herself got married to Marlowe could not be checked, I could not find any paper trail except the Las Vegas marriage license she showed me. The most I could find in the L.A. County Courthouse was the complete proceedings in the widely covered divorce of the two prominent citizens. The settlement Vivian Sternwood laid on Marlowe to get out from under what she, or rather her fleet of lawyers, called mental cruelty and a whiff of adultery when that meant something in such proceedings. (That adultery would presumably include Marlowe’s affair with Ms. Malone but the case never got to that point for whatever legal reasons Vivian and Phil’s lawyers came up with.) Beyond that I couldn’t find much.             

More to the point Ms. Malone’s revelation that all through the case she was “curling Marlowe’s toes,” her expression learned through him which she used any time she made a reference to her sexual activities. That part turned out later to be more provable and I was, still am, amazed that she was able to carry the affair out while Marlowe was worming his way into Vivian and the Sternwood fortune. But enough of my naivete then out in Hollywood land where morality in certain precincts was very different from that of the Acre in North Adamsville. Let Dotty say her piece, finally. Seth Garth]

Seth now that I have told you the story of the Sternwood case, the case that made Marlowe, got him cushy jobs with no heavy lifting among the Sternwood crowd, let me tell you something that might make your career, might at least get you a by-line. Didn’t you wonder, didn’t you think in your head how I knew so many of the details of the case that only could have come from Phillip, like how he felt after Eddie Mars’ hit man wasted some poor grifter trying to help out Agnes get some dough to split town when all her other protection fell down (Geiger and Joe Brody) just because he was not fast enough with the answers-and the hit man didn’t want any witnesses to implicate Mars. This may come as a shock, although I hope it doesn’t but I was “curling Marlowe’s toes” not only after he married Vivian but while the whole case was proceeding to its conclusion.

Whatever had started that rainy day in the bookstore when my hormones were jumping and Marlowe came in the door like some avenging angel, like a guy who was looking for some answers in trying to bring a little rough justice to whoever needed it didn’t stop that afternoon although it very well might have. After we mussed up my desk, I figured the whole thing was a one night, a one afternoon stand, not uncommon in looser Hollywood certainly looser than Maryland or Bryn Mawr. But after the Geiger killing, murder as turned out. he went back to the Geiger’s bookstore looking for anything that could implicate Carmen Sternwood and not finding anything he came over to my store wondering whether I had seen anything going on across the way. Since I had customers and the boss was coming into the store shortly I didn’t play my come hither routine with him but he knew by my looking at him that was what I was thinking. He said we should meet later to “compare notes.” And that started things which never really finished after that until a few years before he passed away when I met somebody who would become my second husband and who would father that daughter I was always giving my advice about men to. That night was the first night by the way that Phil used his, our intimate expression- “a guy makes passes at a gal who wears glasses who hauls his ashes.”  An old-time expression “ashes” but it would get me going more than once when he said it especially since I was sensitive about having to wear glasses all the time.

What will surprise you even more is that shortly after Marlowe and Vivian divorced he and I got married in Las Vegas. [She showed me the copy of the marriage certificate-Seth Garth 2018] While I think that Marlowe would agree with me that we had a torrid affair it was kind of off and on depending on what was happening with him, with him and Vivian in the end. I was not happy from day one in the bookstore that he would be with other women, worse that he would wind up with Vivian which I could see from a mile away but that was the way it was with me-he was my man even when I had an occasional affair like with Ray Chandler and later with Jerry Lord, the producer, when I decided that my virtue was not more important than getting a screenwriting job. Mostly though after we were married we settled down, settled down to enjoy each other for whatever time we had.

So maybe in an odd way I should be thanking old long gone General Sternwood resting in his place of sleep for bringing Phillip Marlowe to my door. I hope you will let the world know that was the way things were between us. [This last remark after I had asked her if she had anything in the way of documentation, witnesses beyond the marriage certificate that I could hat my hand on. Seth Garth 2018]        

No Matter How You Spin It-War Is Hell-In This Year Of The 100^th Anniversary Of Armistice Day Just Ask A Veteran-Colin Firth And Nicole Kidman’s “The Railway Man” (2013)-A Film Review  

DVD Review

By Senior Film Critic Sam Lowell

The Railway Man (railway automatically telling you this is a British film), Colin Firth, Nicole Kidman, 2013

Sometimes a name of a place, especially a place when war or some other catastrophe passed though will make your gut churn up, make a tear come to your eye when you think about that name. The various Holocaust death camp sites in Europe come to mind as do places like My Lai in Vietnam. In my family the Burma Highway comes to those emotional senses. My grand uncle, Frank, had been one of those who died working, no, no, no, not working slaving to produce what the Japanese in World War II were trying to do in the infested jungles of Southeast Asia to get a railroad track laid as a shortcut to from point A to point B in their determination to subject all of Asia to their will. I never knew that uncle having been born after news that he had died on the highway, news that his body had been recovered from a mass grave along that highway came our family’s way. Would not have had a chance to know him even if he had not died that endless death since he had gone back to Ireland when he could not find work in America during the 1930s and then when Ireland did not prove to be any better than America fatefully migrated to Australia. Migrated just at the wrong time since the Japanese were raising hell in all the British possessions and threatened Australia. He joined one of the regiments that would head to Singapore to support the British defense there just before they surrendered to the Japanese. And from there to the death highway. (Why an Irish nationalist, and he was, wound up defending the Brits is a story I never got from my Grandmother Riley since you could not mention Frank’s name without her crying and so I stopped doing so.)

That brings us to the film adaptation of Eric Lomax’s autobiography The Railway Man. The story of his horrible torturous experiences on that same railway that my grand uncle perished. In this case Lomax, played by stiff upper lip Colin Firth, was an officer in the British Engineers who got caught in the same round-up when the British surrendered in Singapore and wound up transported to the Malay Peninsula. Unlike my grand uncle we know what happened to Lomax in great detail from the film. As an engineer he was forced to work on designing the best route through the dense jungle for the Japanese. Lomax though was an industrious sort, a tinkerer, a harmless tinkerer with radios and a love of railroads. He made the almost fatal mistake of building a radio set which the Japanese found out about and assumed was some sort of communication device to get messages to their enemies. No, all Eric was doing was attempting to keep morale up, his own and that of his comrades, by getting information from the BBC International service. For that, which he took sole responsibility for, he was mercilessly tortured by the Japanese military police, especially one Nagase. Eventually the British prisoners, those who survived physically, were liberated by Allied forces.            

That experience as one could expect was a life-long psychic wound that never was either far from the surface or something that he was able to get over as the film edges forward. Enter some thirty years later Patricia, played by fetching Nicole Kidman, met on a train heading toward Scotland. They got along, got along very well although Patricia was unaware of the effects of that prison camp experience until after they   had been married and he displayed symptoms of the nightmares that haunted his dreams and incapacitate him to the point on physical withdrawal, Through an Eric friend who also went through the Burma railway experience she learned what had happened to her husband. Through that same friend who would eventually commit suicide over his own memories Eric found out that the torturer Nagase was still alive and well and had never been prosecuted for war crimes committed during the prison tortures. After his friend commits suicide and urged on by Patricia, he went to Asia to confront Nagase who had been working as a museum guide at the very place where he had been a torturer.               

They met and Eric at that point was determined to get his well-deserved revenge that the Allies had not been able to do. But upon meeting and after talking although it was a close thing Eric decided not to do the murder he had in his heart. This an example of so-called reconciliation between the transgressor and his victim. In the end as we find out through the afterword the pair became lifelong friends. What I ask though is where was justice for my grand uncle-and relief for my poor grandmother. 

We’ll Meet Again, Don’t Know Where, Don’t Know When”-In Honor Of The 100^th Anniversary Of Armistice Day-Teresa Wright, Myrna Loy, Dana Andrews and Fredric March’s “The Best Years Of Our Lives” (1946)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Seth Garth

The Best Years Of Our Lives, starring Teresa Brewer, Dana Andrews, Frederic March, Myrna Loy 1946

I have noted in the headline to this piece that on November 11, 2018 we commemorated the 100^th anniversary of Armistice Day which ended the bloody slaughter of World War I, the so-called war to end all wars. And that is a fitting honor although the subject matter of the film under review, The Best Years Of Our Lives, is the ending of a subsequent war, the bloody slaughter of World War II. There was a real scramble among the older writers here to review this Academy Award-winning film since a number of us, including myself, had fathers who served in that war and who are themselves veterans of the bloody slaughter in Vietnam, again including myself and so were, are very familiar with the subject matter of this film, the return to civilian life after the displacement of lives caused by that service. I won the “lottery” site manager Greg Green used to determine who would write the review solely on the basis of having been the only one born that year of the presentation of the film, 1946.        

Despite my “victory,” a number of the other guys, Sam Lowell, Si Lannon, and Lance Lawrence come to mind, could have written this piece with the same starting paragraphs about our own problems with what we Vietnam-era vets call returning to the “real world.” In my own case I drifted for several years around the West Coast searching for some common-sense reasons to even go on. Suicide while not near the surface at the time was not far from being contemplated. One only has to look at the statistics to know that “option” was on the very top of the surface for a number of Vietnam vets and now we see that same thing, maybe worse by percentages, happening to the younger Iraq-Afghanistan War vets. Mainly though I couldn’t adjust to the idea of a nine to five existence that I had frankly dreamed about prior to my military service after having done, having seen being done by others, having been done by the government to the people of Vietnam who I had no quarrel with.   

Let me go by the numbers. I had ill-advisedly gotten married before I left for Vietnam under the then normal idea that I would have somebody to come back to. Bad mistake, very bad in the end since when I did get back I could not get behind the nine to five job, little white house and kids and dogs scenarios that was her dream (and as I have said already said mine previously). Moreover when I got back and was unresponsive to her needs, she took up with another guy, a guy who was smack daub into that dream of hers (and they are still married the last I heard). That marriage, the first of three, over I drifted from the East back out to California where in 1967, during the days of the Summer of Love, our old late comrade and fellow veteran Pete Markin brought us to see what was going on out there. I was thinking that a fresh start would do me good.

A false fresh start since I got heavily involved, along with Markin and Josh Breslin who writes for this publication as well, in drugs and other illegal stuff. After a while unlike Markin who headed to Mexico and a fateful bloody end and Josh who headed back East to school under the GI Bill I drifted to Southern California and the hobo camps along various rivers or under bridges with other veterans mostly, although not all from my generation but some from WWII and Korea as well. After a while though that got stale and I headed back East myself and from that point, more or less, I was in a more positive direction.  Although sometimes when the moon is full I wish I was back there among the righteous hobo veterans, had not taken a turn to the nine to five world.

In a way this film is good piece of what Sam Lowell has called on other occasions “a slice of life” hook that has saved him on more than one review when he was in pitch darkness for what Hollywood thought was going on. Unfortunately after a brief survey of fellow writers who are part of the fading baby-boomer generation that got its start in the immediate post-World War II period we would never had found out from our taciturn fathers what it was like to readjust to civilian life as they were too distance, too sullen, too driven to get ahead in the dog eat dog world to let on what they were feeling. Never spoke of what they went through in their war. Strangely, despite this insight on my part, a survey of my kids from those three failed marriages finds that I too never spoke of what I went through, was distance, sullen and so on. That was tough medicine to swallow after I thought about it some.

No question this film is moderately melodramatic and maybe today it would be impossible to find backing for its production for despite the old chestnut about a good film being a good film even fifty or seventy-five years later like this one or Casablanca. Probably impossible to get the “gee whizz” notion of community that glued towns together. But enough of that and let’s get to that summary that old Sam Lowell has always cried to the heavens about that every film reviewer owes his or her reader. Starting with the proposition that good story-lines come in threes.

Three is the number of ex-GIs who had recently been discharged from the military service after various stints in the European or Pacific theaters. We have rather than Tom, Dick and Harry-Al, Fred and Homer. A combination of names befitting the times if rather old-fashioned now. A combination of ranks too somewhat counter-intuitive with the banker and middle-class partisan Al having been an NCO while from the wrong side of the tracks Fred had been an officer and Homer nothing but a swabbie what in the Army would be called a grunt-low on the totem pole. And a combination of conditions from Al’s discontent to Fred’s thwarted ambitions to Homer’s war-related physical condition having lost his hands when his ship was sunk out in the China seas.      

What cinematically brings the threesome together is they are from the same city, Boone City, and don’t bother to try to locate that on any U.S. map and have “hitched an Air Force transport ride home. This homecoming must have been somewhat after the various celebrations commemorating victories in Europe and Asia since they all went to their respective homes without fanfare. I would note that whatever public celebrations of WWII happened none were forthcoming when I, or others from my home town, came home after Vietnam service. A different time and different response to what happened in the latter war.

Okay let’s set the stage. Homer had a longtime sweetheart and next-door neighbor who he did not until the very end of the film realize still loved him and will wind up marrying him despite his physical afflictions. There were probably a number of stories with that kind of ending although I know at least one from my own Vietnam experience, Bob Petty, who lost a leg at Danang and whose high school sweetheart just couldn’t deal with that trauma. I am sure there were more such cases. Al, middle-class banker Al, must have volunteered since he had a grown-up family and had been married for twenty years to a wife played by Myrna Loy who was troubled by Al’s behavior, his sullen discontents, coming back from the war. Al was also somewhat estranged from his two kids, the most important for the film being daughter Peggy, played by classic girl next door is Teresa Wright.

I have saved Fred for the last part since his fate intertwined with Al’s family. He, like me, and many others married on the wartime quick decision run, had known the spirited young women for only a short time before shipping out. He had been nothing but a soda jerk before his military service but he had a skill set for dropping bombs mainly in the right place and so thrived in that environment. Back home though he suffered from two serious problems, again which I have many of examples of, including my own. First, that on- the-fly wife turned out to a party girl, any man’s woman, any man with some dough and good looks, a tramp is what we would have called her back in the old neighborhood hang-outs. She married Fred for those precious allotment checks married men were entitled to. Secondly, after the war, after getting out of soda jerk routines he wanted more than to serve giddy teenagers hot fudge sundaes. But he couldn’t land anything that he could keep, that precision bombing skill set of no use in civilian life. No dough, no serious job tells it all. You know that that tramp was going to be heading to greener passages after, hell, maybe before, she divorced our Fred. Don’t worry though our Fred will have a soft landing since along the way Fred and that daughter of Al’s, Peggy fell in love and that divorce was a rather convenient device to bring them together. Yeah, Sam Lowell, was right this was a “slice of life” classic but also rang a bell for a latter- day veteran too.             

Will Bradley The Legend-Slayer Amps Up His Game- Going After The Big Guys-Going After A Fake Hero -With “Solo: A Star War Story” (2018) In His Sights

By Will Bradley

Solo: A Star Wars Story, starring a guy named Alden Ehrenreich as Han, Hans, Hand, Hands, Jimmy Hands, Hans Bricker or whatever alias he is using these days to cover up his assorted criminal activities, Emilia Clarke, and the rightly legendary Chewy who has correctly distanced himself from the Solo, so-called rebellion cabal and its hangers-on       

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I think I am ready for the “bigs” now-ready to take on and slay the legend of legends one Han Solo (aka Hans, Hand, Hands, Hans Bricker, Jimmy Hans, Hans Christian Anderson and a fistful of other alias gleaned from interplanetary police files, most reliably the planet Krypton known for its efficient record-keeping only outshined by the Earth’s Inquisition when they were riding high in Europe under the guidance of various pontiffs a few centuries ago) late of the so-called rebellion against some phantom Empire of his mind. Ready, to as I will explain more below, take on the weak link in the ominous Star Wars industry which has done a tremendous disservice to the movie-going population by touting a mob of kinky humans and their “alien” hangers-on from every god forsaken planet and piece of shrapnel in the universe. (By the way any use of word “alien” refers not in these troubled Earth times to displaced Earthlings without a visa looking for some safe haven but denizens of other planets seeking to get into Earth without proper papers or with the explicit desire to do criminal wrong.) 

Making mock heroes of weak-link Han, originally from Kanas home of another legendary faker Dorothy Smith and her faithful and heroic dog Toto who saved her ass more times than I can count, a kid named ominously Luke Skywalker from out in the high desert of California whose police record spans at least one galaxy, an ex-call girl who goes by the name Leia, Lea, Lee something like that posing as the Czar of all the Russia missing-link daughter, a few out of date worthless tinpot robots with single letter or numbered names and assorted miscreants of various nationalities, planetary homes and so-called occupations. I will, let me make it clear, not hear a word said against one Chewbacca, aka Chewy, who was dragged down in the mud by this Han character and who after have seen the light exposed this bum of the month for what he is. Chewy has also in exchange for no prison time given me valuable information about all the rotten things this crew did again law and order, hell, against small-case reason.     

I freely admit that I am not ready to take on the whole cabal, not ready to go after the “biggest of the big” yet but feel confident that once I take down this hoodlum Han I will be fired up for a frontal assault on this whole sorted legend, freeing humankind at least from serious grafters, con men and women and midnight shifters. No question I have had major success in de-fanging the legends of small fry starting with modern guys like Johnny Cielo. Yes, Johnny Cielo the so-called famous early American aviator who if you had believed the legend was just behind Icarus and well ahead of the Wright Brothers down at wind-swept Kitty Hawk in the pantheon of manned flight. (That debunking was easy since Johnny was three-years old, I have a copy of his birth certificate for public inspection for those who still want to hang on to their silly illusions about this Piper Club pilot, when the brothers soared into the breathless air down there in heavy blow coastal North Carolina). Identified the woman posing as 1940s film siren and nothing but pure eye candy even at this remove Rita Hayworth which was supposedly his claim to fame as Jenny Homes, a street hooker from Hoboken who did resemble Rita superficially but could not have acted her way out of a paper bag. She would later run off with some Mach V test pilot when Johnny’s money ran out and she ran him down as a two-bit hustler when she fled back to Key West and started telling the tale. Telling it to some stumble-bum drunk who then retailed it to a desperate reporter in Miami and that was that. I also have the ticket receipts and flight plan of Johnny last flight before falling down into the ocean with four passengers in the Gulf of Mexico busting the legend that he was the main guy transporting guns and supplies to Fidel and his boys when it counted before 1959. Hogwash.

More, more cred if you like since I am going after very big prey, attempting to knock down Star Wars legends for crying out loud. I need all the cred I can get, maybe a few strong-arm guys wouldn’t hurt either-with or without sidearms once the “industry” feels threatened, feels my sting. Which may already be happening since this so-called prequel hagiographic film hardly earned its keep and righty so since the world need never hear of another hard-luck story about how a guy like poor Hank, Hack, Ham, very appropriate name, or whatever name he is using under whatever current rock he is under was abused by nefarious around him. I weep no tears on that score.

To continue with my resume I took one Robin Hood, he of “give to the poor” fame and through his church and estate records, the ones still intact which by every academic account are right, took him down for the count as a rack-renting gouger of his tenants lands, livestock and young daughters. All while working under the name Robert Hawkins, whom the Medieval historian Lawrence Staines has exposed as a malignant jack-roller and whoremaster as well. (I thank Brother Staines for his help in debunking this stiff whom we have come to know as Robin the Hood around my way.) Took down a what turned out to be a poor farm boy imagined by some cloistered young woman sent to convent to keep her away from mantraps to be a great lover, named him Don Juan, real name, Diego Nunes and described him to all the world warts and all. Took down a guy named Zorro too, although a little sorrowfully since the guy who did a review of a Zorro movie starring Antonio Banderas proudly spoke of his Spanish heritage via his mother and liked the idea that a Spaniard would get positive play in the legend game. Sorry Si but old Zorro once he used the peasants out there in California before the republic to beat back the then all-powerful Dons who had bogus Spanish land grants was like Robin Hood as greedy and callous toward them as the latter had been toward his yeomen. Maybe worse since in a modern twist emulated later by the coal barons back East forced those poor buffers to buy all their supplies from his overpriced and cheapjack company stores.

My most recent expose, the one I am rather personally happy about since I had to endure walking through the catacombs on the lower level of hell to view a whole exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston when they were corralled by some misbegotten loveless curators into presenting a show about the ill-named Age of Casanova, the so-called great lover who never painted picture number one so what the hell was that about anyway in a well-thought of art museum. Such misguided approaches only add to the chaos around various ill-deserved legends. Nevertheless I took down this clownish, boorish, asexual, according to various memoirs left behind by his supposed one nightstand lovers, as easily as Diego Nunes. Turned out he was another one of those figments of the imagination this time of a smart young Renaissance woman who nevertheless paid the price for her indiscretions refusing to recant when the Inquisition rolled into old Venice town taking no prisoners. Funny, sad funny anyway one of the few heroic and therefore worthy of a legend has never gotten any recognition for her brave stand against the night-takers.     

This Han Solo business, not his real name as I have alluded to up above and will detail below, though is a big jump and I will tell you why. If you were to believe the story being retailed of late in the seemingly never-ending Star War-related industrial complex through this film I have just waded through you would have assumed that he was an orphan imprisoned in one of those still nasty dungeons by some savage predators. Not so, Han, Han Brown was born, I have a copy of the birth certificate, in Lawrence, Kansas begotten by Ellis Brown through his wife Amy not in some honky-tonk interplanetary gin mill as he always was claiming. He left home of his own will, ill-will when he was sixteen to either become the best spaceship pilot in the universe or the richest sneak thief or both. After leaving home he picked up this tramp in some bar in Tulsa, a young woman with a funny name beginning with a “Q” that nobody could ever pronounce and so she took the name Queenie and they went through the petty crime night like Bonnie and Clyde. The few times they were caught Han would talk some gibberish and get out of it. Until the great irium caper where he was caught big-time and sent Queenie over since he was afraid of closed spaces like jails. Off on his own he ran into Chewy who tried to straighten him out but failed and maybe if he had left this delinquent, he could have avoided having to fink the bum out to save his own hide, to avoid jail time. Han, like Johnny Cielo talked like he was the king of the hill as a pilot but looking through his police files I noticed that he flunked the flying test twice before he was granted a license. Moreover after ditching a couple of ships with passengers in deep space after he bailed out his license was actually suspended the first time and then revoked after the second incident and so he was officially flying illegally under Empire law.

Han, using the alias, Handel Smith, did grab a job running weapon to the rebels against that Empire which without the steady hand of a guy like Darth Vader was crumbling, was rift with every con artist in the black hole. Offered more money by king-pin Johnny Dryden, king of the fairy queens, Hanry grabbed the loot with all arms and grabbed Queenie who had done her time, his time and was ready to crush the universe if necessary, to get back on track. Something had changed in her, had changed in her in prison like with a lot of women, men too as she was as happy to be a bad ass girl as good. Han did not know that but the bastard was instrumental in breaking her. What else can I say. A classic bum of the month but I know millions will say he was such a good-looking funny, fun-loving boy. Ask Queenie that question if you dare.      

“They Are Spoon-feeding Casanova To Make Him Feel More Secure”-Once Again The Legend-Slayer Cometh- Heath Leger’s “Casanova” (2005)- A Film Review-Of Sorts

By Will Bradley

Casanova, Heath Leger, 2005

This is a funny business, this film reviewing stuff that has been my entry into getting my feet wet in the on-line publishing industry now that I have a by-line. That by-line courtesy of the good work that Greg Green said I did in going mano a mano (my expression) with old-time film reviewer Seth Garth, yes, that Seth Garth that has garnered a handful of Press Globes on everything from film reviews to political reporting, on debunking the English private detective Sherlock Holmes. excuse me real name via my expose Larry Livermore, legend. I have been doing the same, have been building a solid reputation as a legend-killer with a bunch of other has-been legends. Here is the problem though every lonely hearts dingbat with time on his or her hands has been sending in requests about the to quote one of these geeks “real deal” on the likes of Snow White, Cinderella, the Wizard of Oz. Jesus, don’t these fools know the different between a real legend like say Johnny Cielo or Robin Hood and fairy tale characters. To the extent that these were innocent errors I will forgo further reprimanding but let it be known that I am Will Bradley the legend-killer not some sneak in the night disturber and disabuse of children’s dreams and fantasies.   

Now on to the real business of this review, a review of one Johnny Casanova, no, not the long-time and dare I say really legendary gangster, mob boss who ruled Trenton and its New Jersey environs for decades with an iron hand and a vast graveyard. No, this joker is the one reputed to be the great Italian lover back in the day, back in the 1700s. In short another one of those annoying cases where I have to pour through a million documents to burst some foolish balloon, some task I really should not have had to do.     

Excuse me but I am still burned up about those clowns who wanted to waste my time, my valuable time, theirs apparently not to them tthis hard fought for by-line without bringing down some very serious legends which I will in good time do to one John Casanova, or whatever his real name was. I almost lost my eyesight looking over the documents which proved that Sherlock Holmes was nothing but a London night pub crawler down at the waterfront with the tough sailor boys doing tricks. Had to go to the London Assizes for crying out loud to find that this Sherlock Holmes was some cad, some serious con man whose born name was Larry, or rather Lawrence Livermore, who was responsible for half the crimes committed against property in the greater London area during his reign of terror fronted by that Baker Street debauchery. Many people and you know how people are once they attach themselves to certain beliefs, to certain legends even after they have been scientifically debunked who will believe unto the end times about their heroes, refused to believe a man whom they had been spoon-fed to believe was a master criminal detective, smarter than Scotland Yard’s best although that might not be saying much was nothing but dross, a dung heap denizen. But some, and this is my sole purpose here beyond holding on to this by-line for dear life for de-fanging the legends, will read and listen and gain some worldly wisdom.       

Sherlock, excuse me, Larry, okay Lawrence Livermore, was just the tip of the iceberg, the beginning and in a certain way not the most famous legend snapped since it was pretty easy to get the goods on a famous scoundrel from the last hundred years or so. Going back in deep time, a time when all the records might not have survived is different. And that has been my trajectory ever since I got waylaid by debunking the Johnny Cielo legend. That one should have been easy since that was the case of the so-called famous early aviator whose main claim to fame beside the proven bogus claims that he was almost at Kitty Hawk when the deal went down there with manned flight was that he squired the eye candy 1940s actress Rita Hayworth around. Got her to go with him to Barranca down in Central America abandoning her movie career when he got run out town here. Later had the gall to have it put out that he was transporting guns and supplies to Fidel and the boys in the Sierra Madres. Said to have died in a plane crash in the Caribbean doing that heroic work. Baloney, he had some whore who looked like Rita on his arm who ran out on him when his money ran out and that plane crash was in the Gulf of Mexico when he was transporting well-fixed tourists from Naples in Florida to Key West.        

That nonsense made me swear off today’s legends as so much trade puffing and hubris so I have looked behind convent walls been heading back to the big ones from centuries ago. Guys like Robin Hood whose “rob the rich, give to the poor” was one of the greatest scams in history until I got a look at the church and estate records and found he gouged his tenants worse than old Prince John of dreams in Nottingham. Proved through the Spanish Inquisition records, those boys were nasty but they reveled in recording every moan and groan, that Don Juan, another great lover, was a figment of the imagination of one young rich heiress caught up in a convent a norm for young women of her class whose lies were echoed throughout the young women convent land that they had been ravished by this guy, who turned out to be some innocent some farm boy seen from behind convent walls. It did not, does not stop there. Despite my fondness for fellow reviewer Si Lannon and his well-kept and sorrowful secret about his mother’s heritage I had to expose Zorro as a blowhard and as an example of another kind of hysteria, mass hysteria among the peasantry when that is combined with no food, and no prospects. Tough work on that one.  

So now here we are with one Casanova. This will be a tough one to break because even the curators of a recent exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston which young Sarah Lemoyne has reviewed in these pages got caught in the trap when they produced a yarn about the so-called age that Johnny boy lived in. And he wasn’t an artist or even had one painting to display although I hear that his brothers, if Casanova was his real name, were pretty good.

That is the crux of the matter. Naturally this film goes unabashedly along with the legend business, lets Casanova played by the late Heath Leger, run wild in convents and milady’s bedrooms and unquestioningly assumed that what he said he did was gospel true. Said and did via a doctored memoir of some 10,000 pages filled with more crap than any one person could shovel in a lifetime. Did what no “celebrity” today would dream of-selling his or her story on the low. Of course, the film would have done the producers no good financially if the Casanova legend was debunked and he was just some raggedy-assed quay bum working the dark canals for whatever passed his way. But sometimes a film plotline gives away more than it would think. 

The key here is the role played by Francesca, the so-called love of Johnny boy’s life, who was a writer, a proto-feminist writer which befits our time but would have been very advanced in her day. So advanced that she had to write under a male signature, moniker and go through hoops to get her works published. Not to speak of dodging the Inquisition which was still running full-bore although in Venice where most of the action in this propaganda film out of the Riefenstahl handbook takes place although they were being held back a little by the Doge and others who were covering for every kind of debauchery emanating from the emerging merchant class and its hangers-on.  

Francesca, no need to give her last name used in the film since that was a moniker too, as it turned out was the real creator of the Casanova legend, for good or evil. It seems from the Inquisition records, which I have noted are quite good and complete, Francesca admitted under the torturer’s thumb that she had been unhappy in love with one Billy Casanova, go figure, and in her desolate chambers had written the poor bastard up as a philanderer and debauchee. Worse had published the exploits which had developed a following among the plebeians assorted decadent nobility with time on their hands between wars. Before they hanged her from the yardarm or whatever their dastardly methods she refused to recant, refused to say that one of the things about Jimmy was that he was a poor lover in the bed department and so what we have is what she wrote. People will still believe this Casanova stuff but thinking people will know that they do so at their peril. Especially in these #MeToo days

How does that truth square with the film. Nowhere to be seen as our boy Johnny, Jimmy, Billy whatever he told anybody his name was cavorts with wenches, witches and wild novices not ready for the cloister. Makes him the gallant until he glams on Francesca who rightly dismisses him out of hand as a buffoon, braggard and a man with a small inconsequential member. From there on in his patently monogamous seeking only her love and attention. Our gallant even had made heroic gesture of seeking to take her place in the gallows but a clever ruse saved his ass. Some drunkard well met came through acting as a cardinal of dear Rome and proclaimed him free since it as the pontiff’s birthday. Too bad it could not have saved heroic Francesca who bravely went to her end event though smart young woman that she was would cause a serious delay in women’s liberation, in emancipation. And that ain’t no fairly-tale.    

The Moon Is In The Fourth House-Jupiter Aligns With Mars- The Conundrum Of The Western Literary Canon-What Goes Up Must Come Down-Lady Gaga And Bradley Copper’s Reincarnation of “A Star Is Born” (2018)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Sarah Lemoyne

A Star Is Born, starring Lady Gaga, Bradley Cooper, Sam Elliott, 2018

Yes, today the moon is certainly in the fourth house, or at least the fourth, count them, rendition of the classic movie formula film A Star Is Born. Okay, okay I have in previous incarnations gone on and on about Hollywood and now the world cinema “community” pulling the classic of Western literature out of its satchel when pressed-the old boy meets girl routine which has saved more than one film. While that is a factor here in the fourth incarnation of A Star is Born this one does not need such help. Why? Don’t forget that other chestnut from the Western literary canon which is about the falling of some of the gods-and the rise of others-even humans if you can believe that in the Christian era. Hollywood speak translation: one star rises, and the other falls make a compelling story even if as in this plot-line neither party is trying to bring the other down like those Greek and Roman gods liked to do as they tussled with each other.

Looking at the pedigree of the writers who have worked through the various renditions of this film makes my small observation about its genesis way back in the depths of Western literary tradition very much to the point. How about this listing, Dorothy Parker, David Selznick, yes, the big-time producer back in the day, Ring Lardner, Jr. Budd Schulberg and a host of others. So the writing is no question solid. The 2018 version follows suit since with very few exceptions it follows the outlines of the previous renditions going back to the 1937 original with Janet Gaynor and Frederic March.    

There is clearly a divide perhaps reflecting the times between the four versions, the first two centered on Hollywood with Gaynor being a rising movie star and March in decline. The 1954 Judy Garland-James Mason version likewise. With 1974’s Barbra Streisand-Kris Kristofferson’s version we update to a musical theme with the female role a rising singer and the male in decline due to alcohol addiction and hubris. This latest version takes off on the latter combination with Bradley Cooper, as Jackson Maine, however, seemingly channeling the ghost of Kristofferson with his performance. Lady Gaga however is her own self and is nothing like what now seems like a demure performance by Streisand. We are now off to the races.

Our man Jackson still has some musical energy left when he meets Ally, Lady’s role, in a drag bar, a new touch which probably would set Selznick’s hair on fire back in the day. He is immediately attracted to her personally and can see, as we can, that milady has musical talent. (Never having followed Lady Gaga in her musical career other than continually hearing about outlandish costumes and performances I was actually surprised that she is a very fine singer, can hit the high white notes when she wants to which is high praise in my book.) While Jackson is wooing her in his gee, gosh manner he helps her career in fits and starts. She eventually connects with a big-time producer who manages her career although leading her away from the simpler style she had started out with in favor of lots of pizazz along the lines of a Lady Gaga production from what I can tell. Along the way they get married.

That marriage does not alleviate whatever is stirring inside Jackson who is progressively falling apart, drinking and doping more heavily as his star starts to fade and he can’t get the gigs he used to get. Meanwhile Ally tries to hold onto him for dear life, ready to give up her own career to see him over the hump. He goes to the bottom at her high moment receiving a Grammy making a fool out of himself before realizing he needs help. That hump a recovery program which seemingly helps-for a while. Somewhat inexplicably, given his recovery status, a situation not presented in the other versions where the male lead falls down without help, Jackson commits suicide. End of story except Ally, as with all the previous female leads, has to pay post-mortem homage to her late spouse. See this well-done version with a great soundtrack.           

In Honor Of Those Who Cannot Boil Water-In The Midst Of The Things Culinary Craze-Too Many Cooks Spoil The Broth -“Love’s Kitchen” (2011)-A Film Review 

DVD Review

By Lance Lawrence

Love’s Kitchen, starring Claire Forlani, Dougray Scott, 2011 

Sometimes a film reviewer like me knows exactly why he or she gets an assignment. And I can tell you exactly why since under site editor Greg Green we have been encouraged to give a little “inside scoop” stuff about the workings of the on-line publishing business. My tale is simple. I happened to mention in response to I think fellow critic Sarah Lemoyne who was talking about the incredible increase in all things culinary both on-line and in the theaters that in all things culinary I could not boil water. Somehow Greg found out about my withered statement and called me in to tell me that I was the primo candidate to do the British film under review. Love’s Kitchen. Although Greg himself thought along with many of the British critics who panned the film this was a “turkey,” pun intended, he wanted to ride the culinary interest wave and have the film reviewed, reviewed by a guy who “kitchen sink” eats prepared foods a lot.  

Sarah, her mentor Seth Garth and I sat through this thing and were scratching our heads to make sense of it other than to cash in on the cheap in the culinary craze bonanza. See what this film is really about is not food, Jesus, not English food like Welsh rarebit which even I draw the line at, but the twelve millionth reincarnation of the “boy-meets-girl trope that Hollywood and now the whole cinematic world has latched onto when you have a turkey that leaves people scratching their heads. That interplay has saved more than one film although not this one.

Here is why. Rising chef in the British culinary world Rob Haley, you have probably if you have been to London lately since one of his gastropubs that are seemingly popping up in every corner of the kingdom, played by Dougray Scott, lost his wife to a fatal automobile accident. That event crushed him (and his coming of age daughter) and he wound up working in some dung heap serving kippers and other such swill to the unknowing clientele. Not in obscurity though since his efforts were panned by a well-known American food critic Kate Templeton, you have probably read her searing and truculent reviews yourself or seen her as the beautiful winsome judge on some Food Channel production, before you got snagged into this lemon. Eventually our boy Rob snapped out of his morass and began a reclamation project on an old pub that he purchased out in the English boondocks. For those who thought this would be a place to learn how to cook or get a tip on spices from a real pro forget it since fixing up the pub to be ready for the carriage trade is the high point of the culinary intrusion.

Back to the plot. At first things don’t go well since Rob refuses to let any critic within a mile of the place. Enter Kate Templeton, Rob’s arch-enemy from that thumbs down review who immediately forms a pole of attraction to the lonely Rob. Here is what I didn’t know about Kate though she was the daughter not only of an American mother but of Sir Max Templeton, yes, that Max Templeton who before knighthood, before OBE time was ransacking taking no prisoners every home in America who had any young women within. Maxie had met his soon to be wife in the American wild 1960s be-bop night of “drugs, sex and rock and roll” of which he was a master of all three. For those who don’t remember Maxie or are too young go on YouTube to see what it was like when men and women played rock roll for keeps. Google Little Red Rooster the Chicago blues tune written by Willie Dixon and charted by Howlin’ Wolf which Maxie and the boys covered and made the first of several big hits on. That was then though now Maxie, Sir Maxie, is a cranky, creepy, crusty, cruller of a man who wants nothing but calm and contentment. Certainly not the crowd that would gather at a top-notch restaurant out in the English country side. He will make trouble for Rob through a willing confederate smitten by Kate but mainly act as a side-show of remorse for abandoning Kate as a child.

Pretty far removed from recipes for crepes or casseroles, right. It only gets worse as Kate beguiles Rob’s daughter and then on cue beguiles her father. Funny, what gets her home, what gets her under her silk sheets with the man he had to show her the proper way to dice carrots that one would think even an American college professor of culinary studies would know how to do before entering the lists as a critic is her shining light review of his menu. So be it. Once the satin sheets are messed as also on cue there is a moment’s misunderstanding when Kate unbeknownst to her has to take the heart for her father’ s hatchet-handed attempts to shut the joint down. Not to worry remorseful Maxie drops the complaints, his agent is gone to ground and Rob hurries off to the arms of the gallant Kate. If you were looking to see what it was like when men and women keep kitchen for keeps look elsewhere.        

Once Again-For the Umpteenth Time There Really Is No Honor Among Thieves -Just Ask Robert Mitchum A Guy Who Should Know-Jane Greer And Robert Mitchum’s “The Big Steal” (1949)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Sarah Lemoyne

The Big Steal, starring Jane Greer, Robetr Micthum, William Bendix, 1949

This film review of The Big Steal, an encore performance by Jane Greer and Robert Mitchum who lighted the screen on fire in their dance of death in the film adaptation of Out Of The Past (along with a young Kirk Douglas as the fall guy, or at least the guy who fell-first) was supposed to go to Seth Garth who did the original review of the latter film and was to compare the energies of the two filmed performances. After we, Seth is something like my mentor even though I have my by-line now after taking down old-time film reviewer Sam Lowell a peg or two, and site manager Greg Green watched this film one evening Seth told us that perhaps I was better able to write this one since he would be in mourning for his lost youth when this pair were as likely to kill each other as to go under what he called “the silky sheets” and what I called having sex. Seth said he knew that Jane and Robert had gone soft after their last set-to and while he liked this film, he had some psychological energy committed to their being star-crossed lovers for eternity.     

I could see what he meant if I didn’t fully understand why since he has written tons of reviews of films where things got switched up in the sequels or another film. But I liked the film, liked the fast-paced energy that seems to be missing in many of today’s action-adventure pseudo-noir productions. Before I go on though Seth insists that I explain quickly what he couldn’t face doing the review. Simply put in that Old Of The Past  which also passed through sunny Mexico as here Jane and Robert became lovers, lovers who should have gotten the hell out of Dodge when old Kirk came looking for them, came wondering a little why he was the fall guy, why he big-time mobster was made to look like a chump when they fled without him getting what he wanted from Robert whom he hired to track Jane down and bring her back to Reno. But the biggest problem was that Seth couldn’t get over Jane’s outstanding performance there as a gun-simple femme fatale who shot first and asked questions later.

The reader does not have worry about Jane here as sedate and street smart Joan shooting every guy in sight since while she starts out not trusting Duke, yeah, Duke Halliday, you may have seen the headline where he got robbed of an Army payroll and looked to be the patsy to take the fall. He will get well by recovering the dough and meting out a little rough plebian justice while doing so. See the Army, the Army in the person of an officer named Bill Bendix who had spent a career cleaning up the Army’s messes, thought that Duke, beautiful broad-shouldered and barren-chested Duke with the jutted jaw that drove my mother crazy when she used to go to the Saturday matinees to see Robert Mitchum what she called strut his stuff, had been part of the scam, had been involved in the payroll robbery.  

That premise sets everything else in motion down sunny Mexico way where Duke to save his hide has gone looking for the bad guys who did him wrong. Mainly a guy named Jim Fiske who from one report was from one of the branches of the 19^th century robber baron Fiske family and so an armed robbery or two didn’t seem that out of the ordinary. This Fiske though was a slippery character and led Duke a merry chase. Had led dear Joan up a tree as well with some scam he ran on her to get some dough for whatever reason con artists use to grab dough. So that sets up the paring of Duke and Joan looking to get a little rough justice in the world on their own. Set them off across Mexico in pursuit of Fiske in the meantime and dodging and being followed by Bill Bendix. See Fiske is looking to get well by unloading his cash on a fence out in some isolated desert who will give him a percentage of the value no questions asked and that would be that.

Here is where the “no honor among thieves comes in.” Duke was slated to be the fall guy, the guy to take the big step-off if necessary, since Bill Bendix was in cahoots with Fiske. Nice right. Nicer still is that the two confederates didn’t trust each other and rightfully so since hard-pressed Bill facing some cheapjack pension and nothing more wanted the whole bundle for himself. As if Brother Fiske. No go, Joe. After he blasted Fiske Duke and he tussled, and he lost. And Duke and milady Joan walk off into the sunset holding hands. That has to be better than Robert taking two or three quick gun-simple slugs from an irate Jane when she realized that Robert has called copper on her in Out Of The Past. Still a good film although looking at a photograph from that film Seth showed me after I took this assignment when he wanted to show why he didn’t want of Ms. Greer looking very sexily provocative makes me see his point a little better.

Once Again The Legend-Slayer Cometh-This Time In Old Mexico-A Retort To Si Lannon’s Film Review Of “The Mark Of Zorro-A Commentary  

By Will Bradley

If this legend-slaying that I have been asked to perform ever since I debunked the modern legend of one Sherlock Holmes, real name Lawrence Livermore, in battle with old time film reviewer Seth Garth who while as wary of the “fake news” legend of Mr. Livermore as I was, nevertheless got caught up in some semi-homophobic weirdo scene trying to debunk the legend via his and Doc Watson, assumed real name although the name Nigel Bruce has been bandied about of late, membership in the Homintern and their being the masterminds behind all the troubles in Merry Olde England running guns and everything else out of Baker Street and at the Black Swan Tavern on the docks. Thus I got this assignment almost by default since site manager Greg Green now is very aware that anytime some stumblebum legend comes across his desk in film or book form I am the go-to person to utterly destroy whatever nonsense is afoot. (I will also take a shot at art but feel less confident there since the poor buggers who work that trade really believe these legends and spent a ton of time putting paint or chalk to canvas)  

My credentials for today’s debunking of poor deluded Si Lannon’s review of his childhood hero, a guy, a Spanish guy but not from Spain but out in the wilds of California back in the 1800s named Zorro are starting to pile up. The occasion this time a paean to one Zorro, no known last name portrayed in the 1998 film The Mask of Zorro and played by either Anthony Hopkins whom I thought had died years ago from withered old age and hubris or Antonio Banderas, take your pick since it is the legend I am smashing not the actors or plot-line of the greedy producers. We live in a funny age, an age where on the one hand a lot of people will believe anything that comes on the television spewed by any dingbat with time on his or her hands and on the other everything has to be dissected by some authority, some college deadbeat who just happened to specialize in whatever the flavor of the month subject was afloat.

Therefore I am duty-bound to present my credentials since at this publication we have since lovely Greg Green arrived to head the day to day operations bent toward that latter practice mentioned above. I have already mentioned my documented (and wearisome having to wade through twelve or was fourteen Holmes films) debunking of the British parlor pink amateur private detective formerly known as Sherlock Holmes and now fully exposed as a guy named Livermore, then recently escaped from Darthmoor Prison. In a way that was kids’ stuff since I was dueling Seth Garth who had I admit had some insights into the psycho world of Holmes and his crowd. On my own though I was able to sniff out the rancorous fake legend of one Johnny Cielo who supposedly was a nearly legendary aviator when that profession meant danger and short lives. Turned out this half-baked junkie was making his stuff up as he went along and some desperate newspaperman down in Miami was gullible enough to believe he had screen siren Rita Hayworth in one arm and guns for Fidel Castro out in the hills of Cuba in the other. (That Rita tag not a hard thing to see guys would lie about since she really was a looker as they used to say even to a twenties something guy.)        

A couple of major coups were ripping the mask off of Robin Hood and his so-called band of Merry Men, really nothing but highway robbers and drunken sots who had the “rep” of robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Bullshit and as hard as it was since the documentation I needed was from church and estate files going back to the 12^th century I proved the guy was among the greediest guys in the English realm especially when his sponsor Richard the Lion-Hearted got back from the crusades and gave him whatever he wanted. Smashed like a ripe pumpkin. The other major one and I will stop there since I am started to get heated up about this clown Zorro was the so-called king of love then and leave them, another Spanish dude except this guy actually in Spain, for a while anyway until they deported him or he put himself in exile after disgracing himself before a lot of young virginal convent girls who were suffering from enclosure hysteria and hormonal imbalance and made the whole thing up and created a hell of a lot of work for the Inquisition before some Maria something confessed that she was in heat, something like that.

Look, if you read Si Lannon’s review you could hardly keep a dry eye when he explained that his own precious mother was not the Italian of the neighborhood acceptable ethnic group (if just barely in the Irish Town Acre) but Spanish, Mexican and was keeping that “on the low.” Nobody, no reasonable person could fault him for a certain adult pride in his heritage. He will get no argument from me on that score but what brings me to the boiling point and fast is his cringing fawning of this dead-beat bracero with no last name, and as far as I could discover no address, in California or Mexico. In the early 1800s after Mexico righteously kicked dear mother, madre Spain out of its lands there was still plenty of work to be done. The poor landless peasants were land hungry (hell they still are today to no avail with the decimations of globalization and bum treaties like that old NAFTA rape) and were getting nothing but dust and arroyos. Anybody could have come along and gone with that eternal gag- steal from the rich give to the poor and found a receptive audience. Robin Hood got away with it for centuries before I exposed the bloody bastard for the fake he was.

This Zorro business was of the same cloth, tattered cloth. This guy, this Senor Rios, or whatever moniker he was using depending on what part of California he was working started wearing black, all black and talking tough to the coppers when those land hungry peasants were around. Started calling himself Zorro, the chosen one. Here is his gag though, or part of it. He worked these peasants into a lather, told them he would get land grants and whatever else they were clamoring for but he needed money to raise an army to fight the greedy Dons who did own everything including those braceros. They forked up, forked up plenty and off he went. Friends, one of the great things about breaking up the more modern legends is that there is a paper trail, especially among the Spanish churchman (remember they were the cadre for the Inquisition in an earlier time). A paper trail not easily findable in the Robin Hood and Don Juan cases. After exhaustive study and research I can report that those poor benighted peasants were once again gulled by a passing grifter- a guy named Zorro who never even existed. That Senor Rios on the other hand became one of the wealthiest landowners in California before the Republic. I will put my knife back in my sheath for any day now that I have done what I needed to do.            

The Rich Really Are Different, Very Different From You and I, Me, And That Ain’t No Lie-Audrey Hepburn And Humphrey Bogart’s “Sabrina” (1954)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Fritz Taylor

Sabrina, starring Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, William Holden, directed by Billy Wilder,  1954

How the hell did I get this assignment, this woman’s fairy tale romance assignment from site manager Greg Green? And that is posed as a question with about seven riddles since I am basically a stringer, an occasional writer in this publication and moreover when I do write it usually is about some military matter stemming from my now long- ago Vietnam War hell on wheels service. What got me this assignment if you can believe this though from what Greg said was that I had done a good job on a previous film review I was asked to do to give a side glance view of another film and so he thought that I would be ideal to go through my paces on a “women’s film” from back in my youth. Hence my review of Sabrina forthwith.

Since I don’t have much experience with getting what Sam Lowell, a now retired film editor and occasional contributing writer has called “the hook”, the way to lure the reader in to what the film is all about I asked old friend Seth Garth to help me out one day when we were standing around the office water cooler and I was perplexed for an angle on the film. He almost automatically, having seen the film many years ago, threw out the idea gathered from F. Scott Fitzgerald that here was yet another example of the rich, meaning to both Fitzgerald and to Seth the very rich, the old money Yankee-Dutch rich and not the latter day new technology rich like Bezos, Jobs, Musk and that lot who are still wet behind the ears in getting adjusted to the ways of that segment of the ruling class that actually made things and have prospered since Mayflower/Half Moon times.

Funny once Seth grabbed that idea the rest was easy except of course the romance among the Mayfair swells part and Billy Wilder’s ironic and sardonic look at the mores of in this case the New York upper gentry living out in Long Island and not in Manhattan. The plot is simple enough beyond what Seth also called, in the end “the boy meets girl” trope that has saved more than one Hollywood production when the going got slowed down. Sabrina, to the stable born via her father’s job as chauffer to the ultra-rich family, played by sparking vivacious girl next door with a bit of the devil in her eye Audrey Hepburn who almost any guy from my generation would have had at least a momentary crush on, is in love with the younger son, David, a scion to that family wealth played by ruggedly handsome pretty boy William Holden last seen in this publication according to Sam Lowell face down in ancient film star Norma Desmond’s swimming pool in anther Billy Wilder classic Sunset Boulevard and doing the dance of sexy dances with young Kim Novak as an iterant in Picnic. David, starting out anyway has no eyes for her and so that seems like a lot of things about the lives of people to the stable born the end of it.

Except that through a strange twist of funny fate Sabrina is sent to Paris to learn to become, well, a cook well within her station in life. 

But you know as well as I do that Audrey Hepburn is not going to be slaving over hot stoves and steaming kettles for long and she didn’t by virtue of an acquaintance with a French aristocrat of the old school. When she returns to the estate David has nothing but eyes for her as she has become a sophisticated young woman. He is ready to dump everything for her, including a Mayfair swell gal whose family just happens to have extensive sugar cane interests. Enter Linus, the older brother played by aging Humphry Bogart last seen again according to Sam either sending Mary Astor over to save his ass in some stuff of dreams caper in The Maltese Falcon or getting waylaid by come hither young Lauren Bacall in the film adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s  To Have Or Have Not.  

Business is business to old Linus and abandoning that sugar interest for some dazzling fairy princess from Paris is not in the program so he is committed to sabotaging David’s plans whatever the cost. Including taking a run at Sabrina himself. 

That would eventually be his undoing and his break from the man in the grey flannel suit 1950s business chain gang existence. See Linus went too far, fell for the much younger Sabrina (Bogie remember had that thing for Lauren Bacall on and off screen, so this was nothing new) but that is where things get interesting. His falling in love complicated things to such an extent that Sabrina agreed to head back to Paris and forget this cagey pair. Then Linus does a double reverse maneuver attempting to send David to Paris with Sabrina but David decided to do the family right thing and confronted Linus with his hangdog look and told him that he would marry that convenient heiress after all and booted Linus out the door to grab the ship to Paris with Sabrina. Yeah, the rich are very different in lots of ways even the way they romance among themselves.

The Trials And Tribulations Of The Lovely Arts-Hugh Grant And Marisa Tomei’s “Rewrite” (2014)- Film Review  

DVD Review

By Josie Davis

Rewrite, starring Marisa Tomei, Hugh Grant, 2014

Here is a hard fact that I can impart to the reader  young as I am and only a stringer at this publication where I actually have done more rewriting of other people’s work than pieces for publication under my own name. Hollywood, or wherever other locations films are produced these days chews up writers, screenwriters, and you will very seldom see a screenwriter over forty who is actually doing a script rather than a rewrite no matter how famous or successful he or she was in the past. I should know because of all the writers here young and old, having worked at American Film Gazette or not as many have, I am the only one who succumbed to the lure of Hollywood to make my mark writing scripts for films. (The older writers tell me there was something like used to be the case in the old days among actors, those who would only do legitimate theater, meaning Broadway, and those heathens who went to “debase” their art in Hollywood here in regard to screenwriters.)

After I finished graduate school in Cinematic Studies I went out to Hollywood with the idea of getting a job as a screenwriter. It was kind of unknown territory since none of my friends or the professors had any experience with that end of the business. When I got out there and this is important in the #MeToo era I found out that even in screenwriting the young, mainly young women but I heard of the same with some young men, were expected to have sex with whoever would hire them if they wanted to move up the food chain. We all knew that this was the great unwashed secret among female actors but for those off-camera came it as shock (even something as secondary as getting a freaking job as a “script girl” required some kind of sexual transaction). I didn’t feel that I wanted to go that route and after many rejections, even for rewrite, and feeling that working in a CVS drug store was not going to advance my career I headed back East. The other thing I learned was that even in screenwriting fame is fleeting. If Hollywood uses an older screenwriter’s name the real work, the writing is done by the young and fresh. Mostly and this is sad older writers often wound working rewrite if they wanted to stay in the business. It was no surprise to me that Greg Green would assign me this film Rewrite when he approached me to do my second published review.           

We might as well dig right into the plot because in many ways, except the inevitable romantic interest material, what I mentioned above gets played out here. Keith Michaels, Hugh Grant’s role in which he basically carries the film across the finish, is an older, well, washed up screenwriter who maybe does not realize that fact, or that Hollywood spits out older writers no matter what they did-back in the day. (The only surprising part was that he was not even offered rewrite work although he almost begged the shakers and movers in the film despite his faded fame which in real life any studio would be willing to pay day labor wages for.) Somehow his agent dug deep in her well of contacts and got him a job teaching at a dink college Binghamton U. (dink to him anyway) in cold dark upstate New York where the townies roll up the streets come sundown (the students roll up their joints or whatever universal college kids do wherever they find themselves). Not even a gig in New York City at say NYU despite that big tinny Oscar for screenwriting he had won a million years ago but outer DInktown.

Went to the job holding his nose because if there were certain traditions among Broadway actors long ago and among journalists here about screenwriters that lofty profession held teaching in the same regard-those who cannot write, write the great American novel, play, screenplay-teach. Keith had this added chip on his shoulder, added baggage that there was no sense in teaching writing, screenwriting because you either had the goods or not-end of story. Well, of course not end of story since he must in the process of becoming actually a pretty good teacher, learns that his so-called wisdom was fit for the toilet. Naturally, and I say this naturally after that grinding Master’s program in Cinematic Studies in which I concentrated on screenwriting, his comeuppance, his new found awakening had to come via an off-hand romance which blossomed between him and this older workaholic mother of two student, a type to be found more these days than say the older generations where most students were barely out of their teens. 

Mercifully this student Holly, played by winsome Marisa Tomei, just wanted to see if she could learn something about screenwriting skills from the great man starting out and was not in some shadow competition to beat him at his own game. And yes in true feel-good form they go off in the sunset at the end as a couple after some sullen foreplay.   

Naturally as well Keith must be dragged down in the mud before he realizes his affections for Holly and his joy in teaching. This is where the film shows its time. Time before #MeToo anyway which might have changed the axis of the film if made today when political correctness has taken another of its lazy turns. Keith, good-looking award-winning Keith is the target of a young woman trying to move up the screenwriting food chain or at least the English Lit branch who winds up sleeping with him in the time-honored or maybe dishonored is better tradition among some college students of sleeping their way to the top. And down at the heels divorced Keith buys into that scenario thinking that this was similar to the Hollywood ethos for moving up the food chain. No harm, no foul.

Except, except under the table so to speak, this is a no-no in academia no matter who initiated the affair. Keith winds up on a very hot seat when the English department honchos find out and are ready to ride him out of town on a rail. Especially one straight- assed tenured female professor who is the font of political correctness and frankly took a total dislike to Keith from Day One when he trivialized her work as a Jane Austen scholar (I love Jane as well so I too thought he was boorish particularly when his frames of reference were from the many film adaptations of Ms. Austen’s works). Since I have already telegraphed the sunset scene you know Keith barely made it through, but he made it through. Mercifully we were not treated to the big Derrida and friends “deconstructionist” theories that ran through the colleges when I my older sister was in college. Yes, Hugh carried this one off well but I suddenly realized that I am very happy I am not out in the market grind of Hollywood even if does not look like I am going to get a by-line here anytime soon.