"Preposterous, but the laughter dies upon the lips."

Days have gone whizzing by again. Around the time I reached my 40's, I came to the realization that the years were going by quickly, but the days seemed to take forever. Now even the days go by quickly. It's a couple of the hours that have become painfully, agonizingly slow.

True story: I have a friend who comes over quite often. We spend a good deal of time not doing much, talking about the world while watching the news as I make dinner. Then we screen a movie. My friend has difficulty sitting through an entire feature without cigarette breaks, which he takes outside at my request. At any rate, about two weeks into the Trump Presidency, we put a film on hold while he took a cigarette break. As I was expecting a communiqué from someone, I used that pause to check my computer to see if the missive had arrived. When my friend returned, he saw me reading something off of the screen, while my left hand was raised to the side of my head. Without missing a beat, my friend asked, "What's he done now?"

Movies at my place look better in the dark, but this shows off the size of the screen.

On screen, Rod Taylor is about to take off in 'The Time Machine' (1960).

That's how it is now, in this age of the Trumpenstein monster. The news is the circus train wreck from which we can not look away, one of those overlong mid century modern Cecil B. DeMille roadshow spectaculars where they sold souvenir books along with the candy at Intermission. God forbid they stop carrying the souvenir books, you'll hear about it. It is probably worth pointing out that for the 1956 version of 'The Ten Commandments', the voice of God was uncredited. One of the rumors was that it was DeMille himself. My memory suddenly conjures up the early 1930's pre-code DeMille favorite, "The Sign of the Cross", a saga of early Christianity in which the faithful are sent to the lions, and Rome burns. One critic commented, "Preposterous, but the laughter dies upon the lips." That comment is easily applicable to the political situation in which my country finds itself. See, I can't even keep this paragraph focused. Indulging in free association has always been a bit of a hobby of mine, but then again I'm not the President of the United States speaking to reporters or supporters, or allegedly running the show.

Charles Laughton as Nero in "The Sign of the Cross" (1932), which is worth an entire post of its own (and will get one).

I was all set to comment upon some of the many movies I've watched since my last post, but at the moment... nope the thoughts are gone. See this is the problem. Mr. Trump is like some kind of 1950's black and white commie witch hunt paranoia sci-fi creature that sucks all the air out of a room. It would be an interesting phenomenon if we weren't all gasping for air while we slowly choke to death. It's all a roll of the dice.

From Ken Russell's 'The Boy Friend' (1971)

Several nights ago, I watched 'The Boyfriend', one of those Ken Russell movies that seems to have something to say, but which careens out of control, and goes both over budget, and on too long. It's somewhat unsatisfactory as a complete whole, but absurdly entertaining in many other respects. Based on what was supposed to have been a charming off Broadway style revue, Russell's movie tells a story that is pastiche backstage movie musical cliché, concerned with a struggling theatre troupe, and equally struggling actors, their temperaments, and their crushes. There is an on-stage story, with various complications arising from the backstage story, and then there are the imaginings of the actors, sometimes as themselves, and sometimes as their characters. Most of the scenes are photographed with such care to their design that they appear, at first, to be beautifully composed paintings, which convert almost immediately into low camp.

Twiggy as Pirouette in 'The Boy Friend'. 

I've always liked Russell's movies. They're fun entertainments, with frequently memorable images. I think my problem with 'The Boy Friend' is that it promises to say something about movies, or musicals, or whatever you please, but never quite gets there. It just skips off to another idea. Maybe the problem is that the viewer ends up identifying with the Glenda Jackson role of the star with the broken ankle; who can't go on and must sit in the audience the night the big Hollywood movie producer is in attendance. We should be in the show, but we're once removed, helpless in our seats. At any rate, my point in mentioning 'The Boy Friend' was that the morning after viewing it, I read the news, which of course centered on the new President, and immediately could not remember what movie I'd watched the night before.

Twiggy dances with her love interest, a chorus boy played by Christopher Gable.

The night after I watched 'The Boy Friend', I watched 'George Washington Slept Here', adapted from a Moss Hart - George S. Kaufman Broadway farce. I've never read the script, even though I was always fond of the Kaufman-Hart shows. While the movie version wasn't really successful, it wasn't painful either. Jack Benny was the city loving apartment dweller whose wife (Ann Sheridan) uses the family money to purchase a run down country place in Bucks County, PA (where several NYC theatre denizens had homes). Of course, complications ensue. It turns out that Washington hadn't stayed in the house - it was Benedict Arnold. There's a wonderfully taciturn handyman, played by Percy Kilbride to laconic perfection. (There is a story that Kilbride, who had performed the same handyman role on Broadway, and who was hired at Benny's insistence, so cracked up his co-stars that the film was going over budget due to re-takes. Benny allegedly resorted to staying up all night so that he'd be too tired to laugh during filming.)

The highlight of 'George Washington Slept Here' (1942) was Percy Kilbride's performance as Mr. Kimber.

Kilbride would later be typecast as Pa Kettle in a series of films with Marjorie Main as Ma Kettle.

Also involved in the storyline is a rich overbearing uncle in the guise of Charles Coburn. There's the cranky neighbor preventing happiness through any number of means, portrayed by Charles Dingle as though he had just wandered off the set of 'The Little Foxes'. Hattie McDaniel is the housekeeper. There's a bratty kid relative who comes to stay for the summer (his parents are divorcing, and neither want to deal with him). There's an ornery dog (who had played Toto in the 'Wizard of Oz' ). There's the actors who arrive for a summer theatre production of 'The Man Who Came to Dinner' (another Kaufman-Hart play). There's even a plague of locusts. If the house itself seems familiar, it was the set which had just been used for 'Arsenic and Old Lace'. There's plenty of topical jokes which only those versed in the news of 1941-42 will get. (The Lend-Lease program gets mentioned a couple of times, etc.) In the Broadway version of the show, the husband bought the house to the wife's dismay. That set up was changed to having the wife make the purpose to better match up with Benny's miserly, complaining character familiar from his radio show. Which gets a few in-jokes as well.

Of course, everything finally works out, and a letter from George Washington, which quotes Thomas Paine's "The American Crisis", is found and read. It may have addressed the situation of a United States that had been drawn into WWII, but there's enough in that letter that perhaps a revival of the show (maybe set in Vermont) is due:

"We are facing a time of peril so grave in our brief National history, that there is now only the choice of serving the country a little longer, or having a country no longer to serve... In the words of Thom Paine, 'These are the times that try men's souls. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness alone that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.'

Hyperbole

When exactly was it? How did it happen, I often wonder, that our language descended into such decadence that the only thing left for it is the phenomenon of 'semantic satiation'? Was it the advertising hucksters who threw adjectives against nouns with punny commercial abandon? Was it the politicians seeking to waltz already malleable truth? Understanding isn't really necessary, even when it is still possible. I suppose this rumination originated with posts on Facebook. Some people post wonderful, funny, fascinating things. Images, videos, articles, news stories, memes. There are many posting groups centered around themes, such as "classic movies", "cute cats and funny furry animals", "my sad tale of woe", "horrid Hollywood homicides", "liberal politics", "Obama is destroying our country", etc. Some of these groups make money for advertisers by delivering a targeted audience. Many times, links are posted to web pages which, of course, contain paid advertising. A 'linked' article may require one to page through, well, several "pages". Pages with advertising. And pop up windows with advertising, and buttons to "like  this" on Facebook, Twitter, or any of a half dozen or more other "social networks". "Liking" basically translates as, "this will cause your friends who use said service to see your name and picture recommending this post, and there is even room for you to make a comment! You will show everyone that you are just so cool and with it by sharing this interest. Or educate them in this topic. Our headline and a few sentences will stay. And, Oh!, we have ads for you, too!") Each page view is rewarded with some one thousandthmillionth something or other of a cent. Volume is money. Advertising brings volume. So, in Social Media Land one doesn't have a "cute cat pic", one has "The Funniest cat pic of all time! I laughed so hard I wet my pants!" A minor and slightly unfortunate happenstance is suddenly an "Utterly Huge Fail!!!". (The latter phrase always seems to be used by individuals who betray no irony in using that particular verb as a noun.) "The Most Incredible Thing Ever of All Time!" It's like an all news channel, constantly producing raised levels of stress.

 

 

I'm not an Obama fan, but these "memes" are visual hyperbole and very annoying.

This post was originally going to note that we are midway through the awards shows season, and compare those programs and their breathless reportage with the State of the Union address. Hyperbole being a seemingly necessary ingredient all around. At the moment, however, I've become overwhelmed by "the night that changed the world" and several variations of that phrase. The night referenced is this very evening (February 9th), exactly 50 years ago. In this case, there is no exaggeration.

At 8pm Eastern Standard Time that night, Marconi Mark IV television cameras began broadcasting from what was then known as the CBS 'Studio 50'. It had opened in 1927 as the 1,400 seat Hammerstein's Theater. At various times, it was known as the Manhattan Theater (twice!), Billy Rose's Music Hall, and served as a nightclub. In 1936 it became Radio Theater #3, and then the CBS Radio Playhouse. It was converted into a television studio in 1950. Shortly thereafter, it became the home of "Talk of the Town", which soon changed its name to what everyone was already calling it - the "Ed Sullivan Show". 

Studio 50, at 53rd and Broadway, was a busy place. The Honeymooners was broadcast from there for several years.
As were What's My Line, To Tell the Truth, Password, the Rogers and Hammerstein Cinderella, Kate and Allie, etc.

Sullivan had been a boxer who had segued into being a sports reporter for The New York Evening Graphic. When Walter Winchell left the paper for the Hearst syndicate, Sullivan took over as theatre critic and gossip columnist. He soon had the power to make and break careers using the El Morocco as his home base (Winchell used The Stork Club). As the era of café society began fading, CBS hired him to host a variety show. The show was a huge hit and quickly became required viewing in any home with a tv set. And then there was the night in 1956 when Elvis Presley was on. Close to 83 % of the US tv audience tuned in - over 60 million people. (If someone tells you that they saw that show, ask them about the look on Sullivan's face after seeing Elvis perform. If they describe it, they didn't see the show. Sullivan was sick that night and "Elvin Presley" was introduced by guest host Charles Laughton.) By the way, Elvis was not "cut off at the hips" on that broadcast. That didn't happen until his third appearance.

By 1960, the Sullivan show was so famous that it was used as a plot device in the Broadway musical "Bye Bye Birdie". There was even a song called, "Hymn for a Sunday Evening", which was in the sequence that aired on the Sullivan show (advance the video player to 6 minutes into this clip if you want to just see the number in question performed by Paul Lynde and the cast):



In 1963, Sullivan was traveling through Heathrow airport as the fans of a band returning from a tour went wild. He said it was 'like Elvis all over again'. He offered the band top dollar for a guest spot. The band's manager, Brian Epstein, said he would take far less money - as long as The Beatles got to appear on three consecutive shows, got top billing, and numbers at the beginning and end of each show. Their first appearance was 50 years ago this evening.

Sullivan wisely planned for the bedlam which would follow the Beatles opening segment, and had the second act, a card magician, prerecord his appearance. The third act was the cast of the London musical, "Oliver", which had just transferred to Broadway. While waiting to go on, they had cheered their countrymen from the wings. The teenager playing the Artful Dodger was so impressed by the Beatles' screaming fans that he decided that he would have to become a rock star. After his run in Oliver, he signed with Screen Gems, the tv arm of Columbia Pictures, appeared on a few tv shows, and recorded a record for their label.  He soon became famous as Davey Jones of the Monkees.

The Beatles' Sullivan shows were broadcast in black and white - the show didn't make the change to color until 1965. (1965 was the first year of widespread color broadcasts. In those days, CBS had its own color process, which was different from the other networks. NBC used the system and cameras developed by RCA, which happened to own NBC. ABC was still too poor to afford its own color cameras, so they leased from NBC. In one of those moments of true irony, when color recording was desired for use in the US space program, the RCA designed equipment ended up using the CBS system to accomplish that goal.)

There will be a big Grammy tie in celebration of the Beatles anniversary tonight at 8pm. It will take place in the Ed Sullivan Theater, formerly Studio 50. For the last may years it has been the home of the David Letterman show. I don't know if they will use the old black and white footage - if they do, you'll note that Paul and Ringo often look up - they were looking at the fans in the balcony, which has since been removed. It's a much smaller theater now - these days, they use less than 400 of the seats. When the theater was rehabbed to house hi-definition broadcasts a few years back, a little known passageway to CBS' Studio 52, around the corner on 54th street, was sealed up. That studio, by the by, became better known as the nightclub "Studio 54". The Sullivan show faded away in 1971, victim of an aging demographic and lack of interest in vaudeville style entertainments. And the Beatles? Well, if you don't know that part... just check Facebook tomorrow. There will be lots of posts about them and the show tonight, with headlines like "Greatest Night Ever!", "Colossal Grammy Fail - What Were They Thinking?" and etc.

My First

While I haven't given the matter a lot of thought, it has always seemed to me that as far as songs, movies, tv shows, and etc. go, people generally prefer the version they first encountered. This preference goes beyond nostalgia for the music and tv shows that were current during the years in which they came of age. It is as though their "first" became neurally imprinted as the version by which others are measured. For me, this is especially true of Vampires, Frankensteins, and Wolfmen.

When I was just a lad, television was still new. My formative years were spent in an unathletic and rather private family. I was neither encouraged or allowed to go outside to play. Any such activity could only occur after all school work and chores had been completed, and by that time, it was dark outside. I was not allowed out when it was dark. I spent a lot of time watching tv. Back then, to fill programming needs, it was common for tv stations to show old movies. Although I certainly wasn't aware of it at the time, those movies usually came from RKO, Universal, or Warner Brothers.

Aside from RKO's King Kong, and Warner Bros. Adventures of Robin Hood, my favorite movies were Universal's horror series. My initial encounter with their Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein provided something of an apotheosis, as it contained the holy trinity of Frankenstein, Dracula and the Wolfman. A 3 minute long condensation of it was the first 8mm movie I ever purchased. And Dracula was played by THE Dracula, Bela Lugosi. (Although Lugosi played many a vampire, this was the only other time he played the role in a movie. It was also his last big movie; the rest of his career being spent in grade Z cheapies.)

I got to thinking about all of this a week or so ago after the pay-extra-for-it cable channel Turner Classic Movies broadcast a beautifully restored print of the 1958 Hammer version of the story starring Christopher Lee as the Count. Although it was titled "Dracula" in England, here in the U.S. it was retitled "The Horror of Dracula". As much fun as that version is, Lee just isn't my Dracula. The Dracula story has many film adaptions, and any number of similar stories. But my first Dracula is, for me, still the best. And that is the 1931 Universal version I memorized from televison.

The 1931 version was more or less directed by silent film director Todd Browning, who would also direct the strange and fascinating Freaks. The production was plagued by problems from its inception as a silent film in the vein of the same studio's Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera, with Lon Chaney slated to star. Sound and the Depression arrived in Hollywood around the same time. Universal had already purchased rights to the Bram Stoker novel, but now needed a revised speaking script. They purchased a melodramatic stage version which had been a success in 1924 to be the basis of their new script. Depression budget constraints ruled out many of the studio's plans for the project. Lon Chaney, a good friend of Browning's, died from cancer. During the shoot, the usually meticulous Browning was often absent, leaving cinematographer Karl Freund to direct parts of the picture.

Young Bela Lugosi

Initially, neither the studio nor the director wanted Lugosi for the role of the Count. Lugosi was a Hungarian actor who had distinguished himself as an officer in the ski patrol on the Russian Front during WWI. Due to his work for an actor's union, he was forced to flee his homeland during the Hungarian Revolution. He eventually made his way to the US, and won the role of Dracula in that 1924 New York stage production. By the way, it was for that production that Dracula acquired his black cape. Along with a high collar, it enabled the Count to seem to "vanish" into the darkness onstage.

Lugosi's rhythms of speech in the role derived from the natural patterns of speech in his homeland. It is often said that this was due to his limited knowledge of English. At the time he won the stage role, he did learn part of it phonetically, but by the time the movie was made he was quite familiar with the English language.

So what is it about this particular version of Dracula? It's wonderfully atmospheric. There is almost no background music (early sound problems and budget constraints). The title cards are backed by a few bars from Swan Lake, which in this context has a sinister quality. A carriage careens along a mountain path and arrives at a village inn. Frightened women peer out of windows. When the coach's passenger insists on continuing on to the Borgo Pass, an old woman produces a cross for him to wear, "For your mother's sake".

 

 

Before long, we are introduced to the Count himself, slowly descending a castle's stone staircase with menacingly savory and quotable lines that continue for several scenes:

"I am Dracula. I bid you welcome."

(responding to wolves howling in the distance)
"Listen to them, children of the night. What music they make!"

"The blood is the life, Mr. Renfield."

"I never drink. Wine. "

Mist seems as ever present as dust and cobwebs. There is no explanation for the appearance of Dracula's wives - they just appear, floating, gliding, through a nightmare.

Lugosi's Dracula was not an ugly deformed monster, but a handsome nobleman. He approached his victims with a longing sensuality - and with repulsion for his own deeds. Maybe that's a bit of projection onto the character, but it fits and it works. He's a monster, but he's our monster - somehow, we slightly identify with him. I think that is partly due to Todd Browning, who spent many years working sideshows in circuses and carnivals. He knew a thing or two about outsiders.

After the action moves to London, things go downhill a bit and descend into Victorian melodrama. Nothing explicit is ever shown on screen, but there are still more than enough creepy moments to satisfy. There's Dwight Frye, who changes from an assured clerk insisting on going on to the Borgo Pass to a madman craving insects and rats for food.

 

There's Carfax Abbey. There's an incident with a mirror. And there is Dracula, stiff yet leonine. Angry, yet composed. Knowing, perhaps too knowing; "There are far worse things in life than death."

 

Lugosi's menace was so pronounced and memorable that years later Disney artists used his Dracula movements as a guide for drawing the demon Chernabog in the penultimate section of Fantasia.

 

 

Over the years there have been many Draculas. A personal favorite is Francis Ford Coppola's German Expressionist version, with Gary Oldman as a romantic hero of a Count. It works. I like it a lot. I like many of the screen vampires. I like vampire humor. In Roman Polanski's The Fearless Vampire Killers, our young hero (Polanksi) confronts a shetl's vampire innkeeper by brandishing a crucifix. The inkeep responds, "Oy, have you got the wrong vampie-ar!" Interview With a Vampire was a good read, and a good movie - but Brad Pitt would have been the better Lestat and Tom Cruise would have been better as Louis. In recent years we've had vampires that sparkle. And at the end of the month, a new tv series begins with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers as Dracula. That's all very well and good. Everybody has their Dracula. Mine, however, is the one and only. He was my first.

Farewell, Lieutenant Cable

One of the things that disturbs me about reading news on the internet is the speed with which certain stories vanish. Oh, they're still out there, but the listings of the various stories on the news services change very quickly on a busy news day. If you don't happen to catch a headline when it appears, it may soon be gone. Sometimes, it takes awhile to catch up with a story, or to even find a story you didn't have time to read when it was first listed. This morning, while catching up with the New York Times, I found one of those stories that got by me.

The actor John Kerr has passed away. He was once a fairly well known name on Broadway, winning the 1954 Tony award for his performance in Robert Anderson's then daring play "Tea and Sympathy". It was a florid little pot boiler which co-starred Deborah Kerr (no relation). They both reprised their roles in the movie version. 

Due to the censorship restrictions of the time, the script of the movie suffered a bit. On stage John Kerr's character, 17 year old student Tom Lee, was tormented by classmates who found him less than manly. He knew how to sew. He read books. He liked classical music. Somewhere between Broadway and the MGM sound-stage, he changed from being a suspected homosexual to being a suspected "sister boy". Etc. At the play's conclusion,  older woman Deborah Kerr helps the young man's opinion of himself by starting to unbutton her blouse while uttering the now famous line, "When you speak of this in future years - and you will, be kind". Curtain.

(Just as a by the by, in the movie version there is no doubt about the outcome of that final stage scene as a framing device was used to tell the story in flashback.) 

John Kerr then took on the role of Lieutenant Cable in the movie version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein WWII musical "South Pacific". Cable falls in love with an Island girl, but refuses to marry her due to the racial prejudices of his family. It is the Lieutenant who, full of self loathing, sings the message song of the show:

You've got to be taught

To hate and fear,

You've got to be taught

From year to year,

It's got to be drummed

In your dear little ear

You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught to be afraid

Of people whose eyes are oddly made,

And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,

You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught before it's too late,

Before you are six or seven or eight,

To hate all the people your relatives hate,

You've got to be carefully taught!            

              

Mr. Kerr was offered the starring role in a major biopic of Charles Lindbergh. Stating, “I don’t admire the ideals of the hero,” (who had been a Nazi sympathizer) he turned it down. It affected his career. He still got occasional roles in B movie fodder like the 1961 Roger Corman drive-in epic "The Pit and the Pendulum". He turned up on tv from time to time as a guest star, and played a recurring role for a season on the mid 1960's soap opera "Peyton Place". He took up the study of law and was admitted to the bar in California in 1970. While practicing law he accepted occasional acting jobs on stage and tv. His last appearance as an actor was in 1986. He passed on February the 2nd, at the age of 81. 

Rest in Peace, sir.

Rest in Peace.

From December to December

This morning, as is my wont when I have a little free time, I checked the almanac to see who was born, and what had happened, on this date in history. I love this kind of thing - several years ago, I created a partially illustrated daily almanac on a web site, but that's another story. At any rate, this morning I checked the almanac on Wikipedia. And there it was - on this day in 1960, the musical Camelot opened at the Majestic theatre on Broadway.

Camelot- a name which, to folks of my age at least, evokes an entire era, as well as a presidency. And the Wiki on it is wrong. The First National Tour (which uses the original Broadway production's staging, sets, and costumes) originally starred Anne Jeffreys as Guinevere. I know, because I saw it in Philadelphia. Twice. It was the first live show I ever saw. I was either 11 or 12 at the time. One of my classes at school went on a field trip to see it. Some of my family went off to see it as well, and I was delighted to go a second time. I remember my aunt Mary being upset with the curtain calls because Guinevere was in the gray auto-de-fe gonna-be-burned-at-the-stake outfit in which we'd just seen her instead of any of the "prettier" outfits she'd worn in the show. I remember Ms. Jeffreys participation as I was fan of the Topper tv show in which she and her husband starred as the ghosts of Marion and George Kirby. I no longer recall who filled the other lead roles, except that I'm certain that Arthur Treacher was Pellinore.

Ms. Jeffireys performed the role for 6 months as a personal favor to Alan Lerner, and she was delightful in it. The second time I saw the show, there was an slightly unplanned incident. It occurred during Guinevere's song, "The Lusty Month of May". Among the company onstage were King Pellinore and his sheepdog. The dog sort of ad-libbed; he suddenly squatted and did his business. Ms. Jeffreys didn't miss a beat - she sang her next lines, "Whence this fragrance wafting through the air? What sweet feelings does its scent transmute? Whence this perfume floating ev'rywhere?", while looking askance at the dog and "Pelly", and holding her nose. The audience loved it.

Sadly, the three numbers from the original Broadway run which were performed on the Ed Sullivan show are not available on You Tube or any of the other streaming video sites. I'd love to have posted one or two here. I did find this short "making of" video which has a quick clip or two, though.



Camelot furthered my interest in musical theater, in show tunes, in collecting and listening to the then recent development of long playing record albums (the show's album was the top selling LP in the US for 60 weeks! - it was one of the first LP's I bought), and so on and so forth. I never realized what a huge influence it was on my life before. The fact that I can recall parts of the production I saw 50 years ago says a lot. Seeing live theater, professionally done (no disrespect to local theater companies intended, but it's not quite the same, you know) particularly the big splashy musicals, is one of the few things I miss from my years in New York and Boston. I was lucky to see as many shows (and operas) as I did. And who knows, now that I'm retired, maybe some day I'll be able to go and indulge myself again.

Her own kind of music

My gosh, but the birthdays this month.... Today there are a number of people to celebrate whom I've admired, who have given me pleasure, or who have influenced my life in one way or another. But one name on the list today stands out for her songs, which were popular as I was growing up. Cynthia Weil trained as an actress and dancer, but discovered that she had talent as a songwriter. While working at the office of Don Kirshner's and Al Nevin's Aldon Music Co., she met and married songwriter Barry Mann, who had written and performed the hit song "Who Put the Bomp". Together they became major players at the Brill Building, the 1960's incarnation of Tin Pan Alley, writing many of the top pop hits of the day. Young Stevil loved many of their songs. Last year, the couple was awarded the Johnny Mercer Prize, the highest and most prestigious award which can be given a songwriter.

Many of the Weil-Mann collaborations expressed a social consciousness unusual for their day. One, "Only in America" was written for the Drifters but was reworked into an uncontroversial song by Leiber and Stoller for Jay and the Americans. I first heard the Drifter's version, and like it better.

 

A few other favorites include:

 



The following song was one that I often played on the jukebox at a favorite Boardwalk diner in Ocean City, NJ. There is a lip synch video of it which is staged on a beach that I would have put here but it sounds like it was recorded underwater, so I'm using a different version with less visual quality. No matter, it still expresses my teenage angst. Hell, it expresses my adult angst for that matter.

 

There are so many other songs that anyone my age would recognize instantly, But finally, I have to post this one. As of 2010, it was the most popular song ever to appear on radio with over 14 million plays. And yes, I have the 45rpm record.

 

So Happy Birthday Cynthia Weil - and Thank You for so much wonderful music!

Being Alive

It was May of 1970. At the time, I was living in Ocean City, New Jersey, and was in New York City for a day trip. I went to see a Broadway musical whose New York Times review had persuaded me that seeing it was a matter of great importance. It had only a semblance of a story, being told in vignettes surrounding a bachelor's birthday party. The revolutionary set used elevators and moving platforms to constantly remake itself into various New York City apartments and suggest their buildings. The leading man had been replaced just after the show opened. There was feeling it might not last.

The show, called "Company", concerned itself with alienation, with one man's loneliness in life, with the nature of friendships, with disillusion and disappointment. It was not your everyday musical comedy. There was one moment in particular, late in the second act, in which one character drunkenly savages her world and realizes that she is herself one of the "Ladies Who Lunch". It was devastating. That was the day I became a fan of Stephen Sondheim, the man who conceived the idea of, and wrote the music and lyrics for that show.

I was still living in Ocean City when a full page black and white ad appeared one Sunday in the New York Times' Arts and Leisure section. In those days, newspapers did not yet print color - it was only used for the Sunday funnies. The ad was relatively simple, yet complex, and made me think of Sondheim. There was something of a modern psychedelic feel about it. I taped it to my living room wall.

I knew immediately that whatever it was, I would be going to New York to see it. It tuned out to be an ad for Stephen Sondheim's new show, a nostalgic anti-nostalgia musical, which only reinforced my desire to go. Seeing it was one of the great experiences of my life. I ended up going to see that show three times. When I first tried to describe the multi-song finale (which consisted of spectacular "follies" styled numbers taking place in the leading character's minds) to friends, I said it was as if Federico Fellini had directed a Broadway musical. I was enormously gratified some years later to read a history of the show in which its producer/director (Hal Prince) described the concept for the staging of the finale in the same words.

Two more shows followed, both brilliant (A Little Night Music, and Pacific Overtures), both of which I was gratified to attend. Then came word that Sondheim's next show would be a bit of Grand Guignol based on an old melodrama.

One afternoon in 1979, my best friend Jerry Campbell and I were hanging out in his apartment in the East 90's. He had just purchased the newly released cast album for that show, which I hadn't seen yet, and insisted that I hear one particular number, "A Little Priest". I made him play it again. And again. It ends the show's first act, and, while composed in a standard musical comedy form, completely subverted the genre. I soon talked my good friend and former roommate, musicologist Keith Lacey into going to see it with me. It was another of the great experiences of my life. I saw it twice, once with the original cast, and once with the replacement cast. Here's the Little Priest number from the First National Tour, which was the Broadway production, with the original Mrs. Lovett (Angela Lansbury) and the 2nd Sweeny Todd (George Hearn). Mr. Todd, a barber seeking vengeance for a horrible wrong, has just slit the throat of someone who has recognized him. His landlady, Mrs. Lovett, who has a business making and selling meat pies, helps him think the situation through:



As the years after Sweeny ticked by, I ended up moving to Boston. One of the things which helped me decide to do so was a song from Sondheim's Pulitzer Prize Winning show Sunday in the Park With George. Before I left, an excerpt played on my answering machine.



 I returned to New York City for what turned out to be the last time with the express purpose of seeing Sondheim's Into the Woods as my birthday present to myself. Eventually, I moved here to Brattleboro. I soon found myself working three jobs to get by. One was at the Brattleboro Food Coop. I remember one shift, having just come out of the walk-in freezer, spying one of the meat department's two young female employees standing behind the counter a few feet away. She was having difficulty with a customer. After the customer left, I looked at her, and said something on the order of "Haven't you got poet or something like that?" She replied "The trouble with poet is how do you know it's deceased?" We've been friends ever since. It was Laura, now the proprietress of the blog "Austanspace". Although I'm not sure I've ever said this to her, she's been my best friend for the last decade at least. She's also the person who nicknamed me "Stevil".

At any rate, I wanted to take a moment here to briefly note how much I adore the work of Stephen Sondheim, which has greatly influenced and enriched my life.
Today is his birthday, and I can't believe that he is supposed to be 82 years old.
He's not, it's that simple.
Theater Gods do not age.

Hymn for a Sunday morning

It's safe to say that I'm
sick of daylight saving time.
Especially as we near the Spring,
to have Darkness back to do its thing
As I trudge to work in early mourn
once again feeling so forlorn
to wend through darkness I must pass
and blow this savings time out my ass.

This morning does have a saving grace or two. It's my day off. And it's the birthday of Douglas Adams, who left us all to soon. I still rue the day I sold my hardcover first editions of the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" trilogy (I had all five books) to do something so mundane as keep the electricity on and pay the rent. I first discovered the series when I was living in New York City and episode one debuted on our local public broadcasting radio station. I was heartbroken when the series ended (also far too soon), and was replaced with a "Prairie Home Companion", which is the main reason I never much cared for that program. Adams' works have a particular effect on me: they make me giggle. I become a veritable puddle of giggle. I start giggling just thinking about Arthur Dent, Ford Prefect, or Zaphod Beeblebrox. It is a quote from Adams which gets me through the semiannual injection of daylight savings: "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so". 

And, it was on this day in 1927 that the Roxy Theatre opened. It wasn't just a movie theater. It was THE movie theater. It's advertising called it "The Cathedral of the Motion Picture". Depending on the source you read, it had anywhere from 5,920 to 6,200+ seats. And it regularly filled them all. That's about half the population of Brattleboro at one go. It was just up from Times Square, between 6th and 7th Avenues at 50th Street, its marquee and entrance attached to the Hotel Taft.

It was conceived by early silent movie producer Herbert Lubin. The enormous popularity of the movies had encouraged exhibitors to build lavish theatres which would be as much an attraction as the movies themselves. In New York City, that meant hiring Samuel Rothafel, who created and managed most of the great "movie palaces" in the Times Square area. Lubin hired him for a large salary, stock options, a percentage of the gross, and promised to name the theatre after him. Roxy was Rathafel's nickname.

The Roxy had an orchestra pit that seated 110 musicians and rose on hydraulic lifts to stage level. It had the largest theatre organ ever built, a Kimball  pipe organ which had three consoles (also on hydraulic lifts) which could be played simultaneously. There was a separate organ in the main lobby. There were stage shows before the movie. These included a ballet troupe, a precision dancing group of chorus girls named the Roxyettes, vaudeville and radio stars, and a male chorus, all in a program usually tied to the theme of the movie. The show changed every week when the movie changed. In order to produce it, the theater had the largest music library in the world (with three curators to run it), two stories of private dressing rooms, three stories of chorus dressing rooms,  rehearsal halls, a private screening room of 100 seats, a private infirmary with staff, a costume department,  a barber shop, hairdressers, cafeteria, a gym, showers & etc. The etcetera, by the way, included a menagerie for animal acts. 

There were uniformed ushers, trained by an ex Marine officer, so famous in their own right that they were mentioned in Cole Porter's song, "You're the Top". The ushers would show you to your seat, and hand you the weekly program. 

You entered under the huge marquee at 50th and 7th, bought your ticket at one of the booths, and made your way through the entrance foyer, then into a rotunda with the world's largest oval rug, and to the brass doors leading into the auditorium. The auditorium itself was a plush dream in red velvet and gold. The projection booth, in a move completely different from any other theater, was built into the front of the first balcony. The Roxy did not have to boast - it projected the best quality image in town. 

Oh, did I mention that there was a weekly radio program hosted by Roxy and broadcast live from the theater's own studio?

The rotunda in 1927. One of the theater's pipe organs can be seen n the balcony.

Roxy contemplates the main organ console

Pre-construction architect's rendering of the auditorium

By the time the time the theatre opened with a Gloria Swanson picture ("The Love of Sunya"), the Roxy was $2.5 million over budget, and cost over $12 million 1927 dollars, which today would be about $153 million. Lubin sold his controlling interest to movie mogul and theater owner William Fox for $5 million dollars. Plans for a circuit of Roxy theatres were scrapped; the only one built, the Roxy Midway on the Upper West Side, was sold to Warner Bros. It opened in 1929 as The Beacon. Rothaphel moved on to a new project, Radio City Music Hall. The Roxyettes went with him and were renamed the Rockettes.

The Roxy remained one of the premier movie theatres in the world. In the 1950's, new management reconstructed parts of the theatre for new widescreen processes. They rebuilt the stage to accommodate an ice rink for use in their stage shows. Eventually, it simply cost too much in a changing world, and the Roxy closed on March the 29th, 1960 with a Dirk Bogarde picture, "The Wind Cannot Read". The wreaking crews moved in. Where the outer lobby and entrance to the grand rotunda once stood, there is now a TGIFridays. On the site of the theatre itself, there is a nondescript office building. On October the 14th, 1960,  photographer Eliot Elisofon photographed Gloria Swanson in the rubble of what was thought to be the grand rotunda. Published in Life magazine, it inspired a musical about chorus girls reuniting in a theatre about to be town down, Follies by Stephen Sondheim. The show helped start a movement to save New York City's theaters. In 1979, the Radio City Music Hall was saved and is still in use today as a performance venue, as is The Beacon. 

Finishing touches

In one portion of  yesterday's post (the Jean Harlow birthday nod), I wanted to include a video clip from the movie "Dinner at Eight", which would explain that part's title. The clips available on YouTube were of poor quality, and one was even in the wrong frame ratio. So, since it is now within my power (and with many Thanks to the people who helped me lug my stuff around over the years) here's a clip which shows a bit of Harlow's delivery as she sets up Marie Dressler for one of the all time great double takes; a stevil  film favorite moment:




Oh, by the way, it was on this day in 1791 that Vermont became the 14th of the United States.

And there are a couple of birthdays today of people whose efforts have provided me pleasure, and of whom I'd like to take note: that ol' red headed priest and composer Antonio Vivaldi was born today in 1678 (I used to have a thing for chamber music, especially when played on period instruments),  silent serial queen Pearl White, illustrator Milt Gross (worth a long post of his own),

Shemp Howard (there was a time when I was a bigger Curly fan, but depending on my mood I kind of preferred Shemp the last time I checked), magician-card sharpe and author John Scarne, Avery Fisher (audio engineer and benefactor who paid for the acoustic redesign of what had until then been Philharmonic Hall at Lincoln Center),  actor Edgar Barrier (who I so enjoy in his role as Martok in one of my all time favorite movies, "Cobra Woman"), actor John Garfield (seen below with Lana Turner),

and Ward Kimball - who deserves a multi post of his own: one of Disney's "Nine Old Men", redesigner of Mickey Mouse, designer and animator of the likes of the dwarfs in Snow White, the crows from Dumbo, the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat, the mice and Lucifer the cat from Cinderella, the hunters in Peter and the Wolf, etc. A short clip (again, from my stuff and from my private files on You Tube):



Kimball was also the trombonist of the dixieland styled band the "Firehouse Five Plus Two". I've played them on my radio show. He also had this thing with steam trains and restored one that he installed on his property in Southern California. He was the first person to do something like that, and it directly inspired Walt Disney's interest.

And last for today, it's time I take note of the passing of Davy Jones. These things are starting to hit close to home now. One guy I know, a few years younger than myself, noted, "I had a crush on Davy Jones, and I'm not even gay." He was pretty damn cute, with a kind of well scrubbed potential bad boy charm.

Reading some of the reminiscences published about him, one of the things that stood out: he decided that he wanted to become a rock star when he was standing in the wings on the Ed Sullivan Show as the Beatles made their first US appearance. He was there to perform as part of the moved over from England Broadway cast of Oliver, in which he played the Artful Dodger. You know I just have to do this:



Thank You for entertaining me, Davy Jones.
Rest in Peace.
 

Showbiz Gospel

Somedays, he murmured to himself, somedays.

This morning, a bit after the store where I work opened, there were three of us in the front end. Two young women and myself. The two women were talking. As I walked the few steps from my register to where they were standing, I began to hear what they were saying. They were looking at the cover of People magazine, which of course had the Whitney Houston story splashed across its cover. The magazine had, I had gratefully noticed, used a glamour shot of Ms. Houston from when she was young, beautiful, and on top of the world. I first heard the younger woman, all of 18 years, saying that she'd heard of her but didn't really know who she was. The other woman, who I'd guess is in her early 20's and who recently moved here from upstate near Burlington, said that she knew her big song was "I Will Always Love You", but she couldn't remember how it went.

After watching the webcast of Ms. Houston's funeral service, I had commented that I now wanted to change my plans. I'd long ago given up any idea of a funeral, and had noted that I wanted to be cremated and have my ashes blown in a few people's faces. Now I'm thinking of being sent off to my final resting place by a 100+ voice gospel choir. (Okay, I'm kidding, but gosh, would it ever be a fun time for my friends.)

This isn't really something new, though. I've long had a thing for gospel, though I've never really collected it, read up on it, or studied it. It goes back to, well, I suppose it goes back to the hymn sings I loved to attend when I was young. I sang in a youth choir (I think I posted a picture about a year ago). I especially loved the sound of a hundred voices resonating in a wooden church. You haven't heard Amazing Grace until you've been in the center of such a church and such a group. But Methodists don't sing Gospel. Methodists are, in the words of Norman McLaren's A River Runs Through It, "Baptists who can read". Methodists have summer camps, and in those days camp would hold a last night  pledge your soul to the Lord campfire, and there was always an older black woman present, singing gospel tunes while you signaled your pledge by "throwing your faggot on the fire". Needless to say, these observances made me very nervous; I always kept a watchful eye that they weren't coming for me.

Maybe it was the Hall Johnson Choir in the movie version of The Green Pastures. Maybe it was shows on tv. Or, maybe it was the Broadway musical Purlie. Or the Gospel film whose name I can't remember (was it just called Gospel?) that we distributed when I was at Films, Inc. Whatever. Show-biz Gospel. When I first started looking for a place to live in New York City, which would have been 1972, there was a new rock musical which opened on Broadway called "Dude". It was written and staged by the guys who had created "Hair". It was a disaster. Clive Barnes, the critic for the New York Times, had commented that if  it had another two weeks to work on its problems, it could have been a great show. I went to see it. It was uneven, but it was also wonderful. I ended up becoming friends with the brother of one of the creators, who passed me in for the rest of the very short run.  See, what most of the critics didn't get was that the loose story line was a continuation of the story of the main character from Hair. Except, in this case, the role was played by two black guys; a very young Ralph Carter and, as his older self, a Gospel singer named Nat Morris. Also in the cast were a few other singers with Gospel backgrounds: Nell Carter, Salome Bey, Delores Hall. The music had a sort of rock country feel, but as the show came closer to closing, the Gospel singers took over. During the final performance, young Ralph Carter decided he wasn't going to be shown up by the older Dude, and he vocally let loose. The rest of the show took on the aura of a revival meeting. It was a wonderful night to be there.

In 1985 a show opened called "The Gospel at Colonus". It was the Oedipus story, told as Church. It was freakin' fabulous. The role of Oedipus was portrayed by the Five Blind Boys from Alabama. The Messenger was a then less well known Morgan Freeman. The Chorus was performed by the choir from the Abyssinian Baptist Church. It was, happily, recorded for broadcast on PBS. I taped it, and still have it in my Betamax collection of stuff. All that's in storage these days and last time I checked, there was trouble with the Betamax. I haven't seen the tape for about 10 years now. So, while thinking about it, I checked You Tube. And they have a promo clip! So here's a sample of one of the most unusual and most enjoyable shows ever produced on Broadway; I hope you enjoy it!

Sophie Tucker's Birthday

Well, I now see that my credentials are no longer recognized by the rotating globe as being from "Freeport, Maine". Now, the ID thingy lists me as being from Winchester, New Hampshire. Don't tell anyone, though. That area's a haven for ritzy money types, they'll freak out at having to associate with me. All in all, I'd rather Comcast stop playing around at whatever it is they are doing and get my IP address to show up again as Brattleboro, where I live and attempt to pay my bills.

Today is Sophie Tucker's birthday. I've been aware of her since I was a kid and heard her quips, "I've been rich and I've been poor, and believe me, rich is better", and my favorite, "Money may not buy happiness, but it sure does help ease the pain". She was known at the time as "The Last of the Red Hot Mamas". Born in the Ukraine, her family emigrated to to the US and settled in Hartford, CT when she was an infant. She started her performing career as a "coon shouter" in blackface - vaudeville managers thought she was too fat and ugly to be accepted by audiences as herself. She performed songs like,  "Nobody Loves a Fat Girl, But Oh How a Fat Girl Can Love". She hired African American singers to giver her lessons, and African American composers to write material for her. She was such a hit in the Ziegeld Follies in 1909 that problems arose with other female performers. Then William Morris booked her at his new theater on the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway. At one point, on tour in Boston, someone stole the luggage that contained her makeup kit, and she went on without the blackface. She went over so much better that, at the behest of Mr. Morris, she never wore it again.

In 1911, she introduced a song that not only became a huge hit, it became her theme song (and the title of her autobiography). Over the years she recorded it many times. The following clip is from my own library of stuff. It is the first clip I've digitized, as well as the first clip I've posted to YouTube (private link).
This was accomplished using the device I bought myself for Christmas that I mentioned in yesterday's post.. It plays great on my computer, but as uploaded to YouTube gets a bit out of sync. I've no idea why, but I'll try to figure it out later.

So here you go, an old school entertainer doing exactly what she knows how to do.
Happy Birthday Ms. Tucker.




Here's a nice little bio if you'd like to read more:
http://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/tucker-sophie

Our little traditions

This time of year is marked and observed by traditions. Some of us may not even realize that we have them. But if you watch "A Christmas Story" every Christmas Eve, you have one. If you put up holiday lights every year, you have a tradition. There may be changes within, but...

For instance, after my father built his house in the late 1950's, we used to put up lights around the windows that fronted the street every year. He had planned on it, and had built in places to plug the lights in for every affected window. For a couple of years, we would get yards of laurel, wrap it around each set of lights, and using a twist tie kind of method with preset eyelets, put up the lights. As the pace of life changed and made such tasks too involved, he solved the problem by creating special wooden window frames, painted green, on which the lights were permanently fixed. All that remained to do was add the laurel and use the hook eye sets to put them up. Quick, easy efficient. It was even quicker after laurel became expensive and was no longer used. But the central idea was one of the traditions we had. There were also 3 light candelabrum which were put in each of the windows. There was an electrical outlet under each window, and the top slot of each was turned on and off by the room's light switch if one so desired.

One of the traditions here in Brattleboro is actually across the river in New Hampshire. Many long years ago, a local boy-scout working for a merit badge, created a large star to put up facing town on the top of Mount Wantastiquet.  It uses large #10 sized tin cans to hold light-bulb sockets (and act as reflectors), each illuminating a point on the star. It plugs into a microwave tower related building that is there. The local troop hikes up there to relight it in early December every year. It is truly a light in the darkness, a candle burning in the window. And, it's just plain neat.

This morning, I was searching for something on YouTube when I noticed a little holiday bonus which I hope becomes a tradition. After a video starts playing, a snowflake appears at the bottom of the streaming window. It is clickable. Of course, I am posting a sample video so you can try it out. So, here's a medley of songs which originally appeared on the Phil Spector monaural sonic spectacular long playing album, "A Christmas Gift for You" as performed by two of that record's performers, Ronnie Spector and the great Darlene Love.

A word of warning: your chin is likely to drop to your chest when you start watching this. Please try to remember to click on the snowflake by the time Ms. Love starts belting "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)".




And one further note, regarding Ms. Darlene Love. I fell in love with that woman's voice as I was growing into the start of my teenage years way back when. Today I Met the Boy I'm Gonna Marry. He's a Rebel. And so many others. Even during her "stardom", The Blossoms, the group she joined as a teenager, performed as session and touring back up singers for everybody from Sam Cooke to Elvis Presley. She was almost at the top of the pop business when the British Invasion changed American music, and she had a falling out with Phil Spector. "River Deep, Mountain High" was created for Darlene Love. The story has it that he was mad at her so he gave the song to Tina Turner, whom it made famous. In 1986, there was a Broadway revue format musical based on the life of songwriter Ellie Greenwhich. Ms. Love played herself. And, she got to sing "River Deep..."  Hers is the only rendition I ever heard that beat Tina Turner at anything. Every year now since 1986 when she was in New York doing the show and they first got her to do it, Darlene Love has appeared on the last live David Letterman show before Christmas. As the program's finale and Christmas present to all, she and Paul Shaffer and the band perform "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)". This will be the 25th year they've done it. The song, one of the last three great pop Christmas songs created in my lifetime, was written in 1963 for Ronnie Spector, but Phil felt it needed someone stronger and gave it to Darlene instead. She still performs it like it's nobody's business. I look forward to her performance of it every year. It's one of my rituals, my traditions of the season. She'll be on the Letterman show tomorrow night, Friday December 23rd, 2011 if you care to join me, and I do hope you will.

By the way, a shameful oversight was corrected this year, 2011, when Darlene Love was finally inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.