A Dream Queen

All the buzz about the Jason Collins Sports Illustrated article, which details how and why the journeyman NBA center decided to come out, can't hold a sequin to this article by Sean Mulroy. He's a USC swimmer, who has been out and proud since he first stood on the Trojan pool deck his freshman year. [Ah, the irony of the Trojan team name.]  Frankly, compared to SI's not-very-blockbuster story, which details the first time any NBA or other big time professional athlete has come out in front of God and everyone, Sean's story is way more interesting.

          Before big meets, he designs a special Speedo for the occasion. And one of his latest creations caused such a stir that the officials banned it from the natatorium or wherever they're holding meets these days. Parents thought he was espousing the drug culture or "perpetuating an inappropriate message in a public setting" -- whatever the hell that means. Okay, maybe writing "Sharon Needles: Welcome to Party City" across the front of the suit was a bit over the top, but how much can anyone read on the crotch of a Speedo, anyway? [See below.]

Sean Mulroy [Stylin' USC swimmer]

Sharon Needles [Google Images]

                              Willi Ninja [Paris is Burning]        Ru Paul [Ru Paul's Drag Race]

For those of you who don't keep up with the latest in reality TV, Sean's custom-designed swimsuit for the Pac 12 Championships -- since banned -- featured the aforementioned Sharon Needles with her face lurking about Sean's package on the front of the suit, with a "cheek to cheek," [in a manner of speaking] pose on the back. Up above is a screenshot that says it all. 

           I'm sure you can imagine why the full frontal view of Sean's Speedo, as it were, was not chosen to share. Sharon, if you didn't know, is the outre drag queen [hmm, that may be redundant] who was the winner of the fourth season of Ru Paul's Drag Race competition. 

           Ru Paul, by the by, happens to be godparent to my friend Nancy's grandson. So I'm only a degree or so away from his bright and colorful female celebrity self. Not to mention that I am one of the few white suburban women of a certain age who has danced with the late Willi Ninja, the quintessential New York voguer. He was better. 

          Sean insists that his Just Spank Me Speedo wasn't promoting drug use -- au contraire. He is simply a huge fan of "drag queen fabulosity." And that phrase alone makes him more interesting than SI's first poster boy for gay athletes, Jason Collins, a perfectly nice young man it seems, but one who clearly lacks Sean's athletic style and creativity. 

Road Rash

Most people think I'm a Type A personality. Okay, I am. But not in the car. Get me in the car and I am a fuzzy wuzzy. Instead of driving five miles over the limit like EVERYONE ELSE, I drive five miles under. 
          You know how everyone else races to beat the light when it turns yellow? I don't do that. I slow down and stop. Yep, that's me, pissing you off. And I'm not ever in a hurry. Even when I'm in a hurry. The only other Type A personality I know who drives like I do is a Vietnam Vet I hung out with, whose Special Ops nickname in the Marines was Captain Midnight. He also played professional hockey, then became a trial lawyer, but lost his law license for punching out another attorney. Type A? Ya think? Outside the confines of a car the guy was so intense it was scary. Piercing black eyes, coal black hair. . .nice abs, but I digress. Inside the car he drove so slowly he had time to read a book at a stop sign. He was following me to a restaurant one day and I could have pulled over and parked just waiting for him to catch up. 
          But the rest of the world doesn't like drivers like me. Or him. Nope, they don't. The other day I starting making a phone call as I left a parking lot after visiting with a friend. There was a stoplight a block away. It was red. Naturally, I slowed down for the light. No sense in gunning the engine only to put on the brakes. Not when you can just ease on down the road.  
          As I started leaving a phone message, the light turned green. I noticed a red car was hovering right behind me as I turned right. The speed limit was 35. I accelerated to 32, which is kind of speedy for me. The bitch behind me thought I should go faster. There were two lanes. The one on my right was open, so she could have taken that one. But for some reason she was butt up on my bumper, honking. 
          You KNOW what I did, don't you? Yep, I slowed down. Way down. Hey, there was a stoplight just a block away. It was red. What's the hurry? Since I was going to turn left at the light, I moved over into the lefthand lane and stopped at the stoplight. 
          The Bitchmeister pulled up on my right and shouted at me that there was no cellphone use in this town. Oooo, I was doing something ILLEGAL!!! Then she said she knew I was on the phone because I was only going 20 miles an hour. To her, anything under the limit is probably 20 mph. I told her it wasn't because I was on the phone, since I always drive slowly. Just for the record, I was actually going 32 miles an hour, Bitch. "Well, you shouldn't be on the road then!"  And that comment was relevant, how? 
          Here's the good part. I'm so proud of what I did next. The light turned green and I hit the accelerator, laid some rubber and yelled, "Why Don't You Just Go F*ck Yourself!!!"
I thought she would keep on driving and leave me to my leisurely pace. Notsofast, telephone breath. I had pissed her off so much she made an illegal left turn from her lane so she could follow me, the whole time yelling -- "Asshole!" Me, "Turd Brain!" Her, "Bitch!" etc., etc., etc. 
          That was fun!! Maybe I'll drive even slower and see who else I can annoy.          

Before My Feet Hit the Floor

It’s 7 something in the AM. I’m taking stock of my life, lying here in bed. 

After 47 years, my mother is still dead. No improvement there. 

I suddenly realize that one of my children has spent the last two decades making a fool out of me. You have to admire her courage. 

Yesterday, someone who constantly manipulates my good nature for free creative work did it again. Maybe he’ll get cancer and die. 

On my way to Florida next month, I offer to drop off an antique dollhouse for someone’s niece, who lives a thousand miles away. Her folks say now’s not a good time because they don’t have a bed in the guest room. WTF? 

My California brother, who wears an aluminum foil hat [really], has asked me -- again -- to send him his school pictures from third grade. Again I have to remind him that we have had this conversation. They're gone. Wait a minute, didn’t he tell me a year ago that he only had thirty days to live? How come he’s still alive? 

Enough with the introspection. 

My cell phone alarm just went off for the third time. I text a guy I know and ask him if he wants to go to the zoo this weekend. Might as well get the day started.

Shrinkwrapped

I decided to tackle Season One of InTreatment, HBO's programming about a therapist, his patients, and the therapist's therapist. The show was set up in five 20 to 25 minute segments, four with the therapist dealing with his patients, and one with the therapist talking to his consulting therapist about dealing with each of his patients. So an evening could last more than two hours, but you could bail out after each half hour segment. Or watch them one at a time like bon-bons, if you'll excuse the mixed metaphor.
          Full disclosure at the outset, my father was a Freudian psychoanalyst, the talk therapy founders, a rare breed in this day and age of dose 'em with drugs and send them on their way. Also, lots of people are calling themselves analysts these days who don't qualify, in my opinion. 
          Psychoanalysts [in the olden days] were first trained as psychiatrists. So they were doctors. They could prescribe medication, if necessary. As docs, they could also distinguish between a psychosomatic illness and an organic one. Does she have M.S. or conversion hysteria? Diagnosis and treatment. One-stop shopping. 
          Most, if not all, the psychiatrists who planned to become psychoanalysts were usually board certified. So the bar had been raised fairly high before they started training to be an analyst. The next step was to attend an Institute for Psychoanalysis [NYC or Chicago were the ones I remember] for four years, give or take, undergo analysis themselves [I think my dad b.s.'d his way through his] and pass more tests.
          These days, you can be accepted into a psychoanalytic program without even being a medical doctor or a PhD/PsyD. But don't expect your B.A. in creative writing to get you in -- clinical social workers with a minimum of a master's degree are at the bottom of ladder. You still have to go through analysis and four more years of school, but entrance standards seem to be different now. Okay, lower. 
          Meanwhile, as smart as my father was -- he skipped his senior year of high school after taking the entrance exams for the University of Chicago and placing in the Top Ten finalists for the freshman class -- I probably learned more about human behavior from my mother, who was successfully analyzed [seven years, three times a week] by Theresa Benedek, a renowned Hungarian analyst at the Institute for Psychoanalysis in Chicago. That's because my mother was grounded in common sense, not esoteric jargon. So with all that in mind, I have some biases about therapy. And psychotropic drugs. Which boil down to this, in a nutshell: Do therapy. Or do therapy and drugs. Don't do drugs alone.
          With my background, I knew it would be hard to start watching InTreatment. Would the show break any of my cardinal rules of shrinkage? Would I cringe at the therapy? Or the therapist?
          And, voila! Yes. Yes. And Hell, yes. The very first episode was a classic stereotype. The therapist was male [Gabriel Byrne]. His first patient was female. You can probably guess the rest, but first, allow me to digress to another one of my biases. 
          Whenever I have a friend seeking therapy, I always tell men to see men and women to see women. Gay or straight. Doesn't matter. Same sex is the way to go. 
          Why? Because too many therapists [predominantly male] are susceptible to patients of the opposite sex. Imagine phone sex, live and in person. AND those horny therapists get PAID to listen to it. The history of the profession is littered with temptation. They've even made movies about the assholes who succumbed  -- A Dangerous Method, anyone?
          But the patients may be even worse. I have known women in their forties and fifties who have told me they were actively trying to seduce their shrinks while in therapy. WTF? First of all, ladies, you're not that good looking. And you're insane. Come on. Shrinks have standards, too. 
          Of course, some shrinks have a different problem. They don't know when to cut a patient loose. That regular paycheck is so appealing. I know one patient [an attorney in real life] whom I have called a "lifer." To his face. He's still seeing a therapist once a week after more than twenty-five years. Hello? Haven't you got any friends? I told him to pay me. I'd be his friend. He still has the same problem he's always had with women. They're certifiable. Only now that he's wealthy, they're just younger and better looking. 
          Meanwhile, whaddya know [thanks for waiting for it], the story line for Gabriel Byrne and that very first female patient is the same old tired cliche -- the young, beautiful bitch is trying to seduce the therapist and, it turns out, he wants to do her, too. I could barely finish the episode. 
          Next patient? A handsome, Top Gun pilot who wiped out a school in Iraq, killing sixteen children in a pinpoint raid. Right after the incident he decides to run more than twenty miles, without training, which precipitates a heart attack. Sounds like he's trying to kill himself out of guilt, but, of course, he's in denial. Meanwhile, because of the heart attack, the Navy grounds him as temporarily unfit to fly. And he comes to the therapist. This particular story line is the most interesting of all. But, sadly, it ends predictably. On his first flight after deciding to leave therapy, the pilot crashes his plane, making no attempt to eject or save himself. 
           I should mention that the pilot is African-American, because, in addition to choosing a therapist of the same gender, I would add choosing a therapist of the same race. I think there are so many cultural nuances that affect our psyches that commonality of racial history or similar ethnicity helps eliminate incorrect assumptions and illuminate the right ones. 
          With one exception. There is a theory that the quality of the relationship between a therapist and patient, not the type of therapy practice, is what benefits the patient most. So, in lieu of a perfect match, race and gender-wise, I would recommend a therapist of any race who is a female social worker or Psy.D/PhD. But not a female psychiatrist or psychoanalyst. Women are [generally -- oh, hell -- always] more empathetic than men. But I think female psychiatrists/psychoanalysts lose all vestiges of empathy the higher up they go on the food chain. Sometimes education isn't necessarily a good thing. 
          After the therapist on the show has crossed both gender and racial lines with his first two patients, his next one is a teenaged girl. Like that's going to happen in this day and age. There are no generalists in shrinkland. Everybody's got a specialty. Adults OR children. Not both. Plus, a teenager in therapy is usually dealing with sexual and/or suicidal issues. Not to mention a fucked up mom and dad. Just like this kid. [Not to mention a pedophile priest, coach, or scout leader.] Quelle surprise!!!! 
          Little Miss I'm So Full of Angst is followed by an unhappy couple. Holy crap, this guy's a family therapist, too? I don't think so. And these two are having such terrible problems just talking to one another, I would have told them to call a lawyer and not ever come back. But that's just me. Guess what? After many months, they decide to call a lawyer and never come back. Thank you, I'm here 24/7. 
          Finally, each week, after seeing these patients, the therapist goes to see a supervising analysand. Basically, she's a second opinion. Since shrinks work alone and are accountable to no one, I think a second opinion should be a requirement for all of them to keep their jobs. Not going to happen. She was his supervisor for eight years before they had a falling out, but now, because he's floundering around trying to figure out what to do with his pathological menagerie, they've reconnected so she can help get him on track. 
          If only he'd asked me.  

The Wire -- Season One, Episode 4 -- The Fark Factor

I never watched The Wire consistently, except a few times when Maestro Harrell played the part of a young ghetto kid, Randy Wagstaff. Several years ago, when he was ten, Maestro did a kid rap for me on a Kellogg's commercial and I became a fan. He now plays the clean cut Malik on Suburgatory. But this week, I decided to watch the well-regarded HBO series from top to bottom, even though it's going to be a brutal ride to say the least. 
           I'm only on Episode 4 of Season One, but already it's been worth all the drug deals, bad cops, brutal shootings, and general life's-a-bitch-and-then-you-die physical and emotional mayhem. 
           Why? Because I listened to the commentary for Episodes 1 and 2. That's where I learned that Edward Burns, not the actor/director, but the ex-Baltimore homicide cop who helped create The Wire with David Simon, wrote an entire scene between two detectives and the only dialog was the "F" word. [Also, did you know that one of the girls who plays a stripper is a graduate of Harvard University. In real life. And the actors who play D'Angelo and Bunk both went to Juilliard.]
           Why, you wonder, did he write an entire scene using only the "F" word? Because the show received some criticism for using too much profanity. However, according to the commentary, anyone who spent time around the Baltimore police noticed that everything they said was laced with four letter words. Which caused Ed Burns, the former cop, to comment that he thought cops could have an entire conversation using only one word -- F**k. And the gauntlet was thrown. 
           That's why in Episode 4 of Season One, the following dialog takes place between two detectives who are in an empty apartment, looking for clues in a murder investigation.

In deference to my more sensitive readers, I've substituted the work Fark for F**k. 

TIME CODE START: 46:09
COP 1: Fark.
COP 2: Motherfark.
COP 1: Fark, fark, farkity fark, fark, fark, fark, fark, fark, fark.
COP 2: --the fark?
COP 1: Fark.
COP 2: Fark.
COP 1: Fark. Fark.
COP 2: Fark it. Oh, fark.
COP 1: Motherfark.
COPS 1 and 2: Aw, fark. Aw, fark.
Farkity fark, fark, fark, fark. Farker.
Aw, fark. 
Fark. Fark. Fark. Fark. Fark. Fark. Fark. 
COP 1: Motherfarker.
COP 2: Farkin' A.
COP 1: Fark.
COP 2: Motherfarker.
COP 1: Fark me. 

END: 49:41

I might have missed a few farks, but I'm sure you get the idea. Keep in mind, the whole time they were "farking" they were actually performing investigative duties relevant to the murder scene. So there was also acting involved. 

I didn't catch on to what was happening for more than half the scene, even though I had been forewarned about the farking in the earlier commentary. First it just seemed like natural cop talk. Then I noticed how long it was going on. Then it got funny. 

I think we should all try having an entire conversation with another person or two, while only using the "F" word. And all its iterations. Come on. You know you want to. 

Golden Oldies in Black and White

An old and dear friend -- a guy I wanted to marry once, until I got over it -- just sent me some photos from the way back machine. The pix weren't taken for any particular reason. He photographed me and his friend, Ked, in the alley behind Ked's family brownstone in Chicago. We were all hanging out and he had his camera with him, so he snapped a few. 

           I'm posting the pix here in my blog in the hope that they will survive longer than in my house, where pipes tend to burst and police enter without warrants for unnecessary wellness checks. Also because I'm showing off. It's what women of a certain age do when neither makeup nor Spanx can recapture those halcyon days of yesteryear. Only pictures will do. No really, I was tall and thin, claims the nearly 70-year-old woman in polyester and sequins who now sings barbershop harmony. See? Here's the proof. 

           The photos are dated 1969, a mere 43 years ago. Ked, the guy in the picture with me, has recently had anterior total hip replacement surgery with Dr. Michael Stover, the same doc who did my hips. Along with the photographer, he and I have been friends for a long, long time. Ked was going to have his hip surgery done by someone else, until I asked him, "Do you want to have sex and play sports again like you used to?" 

           [Just an FYI -- I didn't mean have sex with me. I meant with his girlfriend.] 

           I told him I had seen some detailed diagrams that showed what men had to go through to have sex without begging, following other, more traditional types of hip replacement surgery. 

           So he went to Dr. Stover. But I digress. Here are the pictures. I'm wearing a wig -- hey it was the sixties. I've got false eyelashes on -- hey, it was the sixties. And I had never dieted in my life -- hey, I'm now in my sixties -- times change. 

           

Old Boyfriend Sighting

Time to sit around the Old Boyfriend Campfire and fire up a yarn.
          I got a flat tire on the way home from a downtown meeting last week. After pulling over to the shoulder, I began to contemplate next steps, when a Minuteman pulled up behind me. Part of IDOT's service [Ill. Dept. of Transportation] is having Minutemen roaming the highways in ginormous rescue trucks, especially during high traffic hours. [No, this young guy wasn't the old boyfriend.] My handsome highwayman would have happily changed my tire for free and sent me on my way, except, ack, I was already driving on my spare. So he followed me as I thump-bump-thump-de-bumped to the next exit, and limped into a random CARx [WE SELL TIRES!!!!]. 
          On a 4x4 truck like mine -- i.e., a Ford Explorer -- the loss of one tire can mean you have to replace all of them. Something about the drive train exploding, whatever. I've been told this many times before, but I hated the idea of replacing every tire, when only one was flat. $150 versus $600 -- I did the math. And ignored the issue. Now push had finally came to shove.
          Based on how bald the other tires were, never mind the drive train, I agreed it was time to replace them all. But on another day. So I returned a couple of days ago to do the rest of the swap. 
          Also, after putting off another fix I had needed for more than FOUR years, I decided to replace the ball joints on my front end, too. How bad were they? The manager showed me how the ball was almost completely separated from the joint. This close to failure. Things were so loose that my front tires were canted at an angle as I drove, like a racing vehicle. You mean that's not normal? Things were so loose, I could see the front tires had several inches of play when the car was up on the lift. To his credit, the CARx manager never used the word death. He only said, "This could be a safety issue pretty soon." No shit. 
          I went into the waiting room to kill two hours, looking forward to reading their extensive collection of Time and People Magazines. And there he was, an old boyfriend!!! Here, at the random CARx I had patronized by accident. Cosmic!! What were the odds? 
          How long had it been since I last saw him? We had first met and dated in college -- 50 years ago. He was an upperclassman, played football, and belonged to one of the cool frat houses. I was fresh meat, I mean a freshman. He let me idolize him and type his term papers. Thanks to another coed who put out way more than I did, things did not end well. 
          We tried to hook up once again twenty years later, after meeting by chance on the street [see a pattern here?], following our respective divorces. By that time, without realizing it, the passage of time and my life experiences had conspired to make me a feminist. However, his notions of all things male and female remained fossilized and old school -- you know, dump your plans with girlfriends to go on a date with him. He also made the mistake of telling me what to wear. ONCE. It ended for good when he called to tell me to hire a housekeeper for his son, since that was a job for a woman to do.
          We have a mutual college friend, Don. He introduced us. Over the years I have called Don to catch up. Only to learn later that my old boyfriend had called to catch up with Don on that very same day, too. Also cosmic. 
          Just a few weeks ago I talked to Don for the first time in over four years. After we connected, part of me was wondering if that meant my old boyfriend would make an appearance anytime soon. Actually, I was wondering HOW we would run into each other.
          And here we were in the random CARx. He didn't recognize me after more than twenty years, so there was no need for what I did next. But I went and did it anyway. I said his name. He looked at me, puzzled. I said my name. Slowly you could see a flicker of recognition cross his face. I could see he was having his own cosmic moment. 
          He looks pretty much the same. Only 50 years older. I have changed a lot. We did the usual old flame chit chat, how're the kids, you talk to Don lately, been to any reunions? Sadly, when he was ready to leave, he asked me for my phone number. That's so old school. Flatter a former girlfriend, even though you didn't recognize her, by asking for her number. I gave it to him. What was I going to say, "Oh please, let's not kid ourselves?" Okay, I guess I could have. But I didn't. He immediately called my phone so I would have his number in return. My phone was on vibrate so he thought I didn't have it with me. I liked that. It meant I could ignore his calls, should there be any, and he would accept my excuse.  
          The good news is that I am sure I won't hear from him. That's also old school. Plus it'll probably be another twenty years before I will run into him again. 
          And by that time, the chances are good we'll both be dead.     

I'm Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

Here's how the original Declaration of Independence begins:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. . .

I think it's about time for an updated version:

We hold these truths to be self evident; that women are the equal of men, 

that they deserve the same rights as men, that their merit as human beings should 

be judged by the intelligence of their ideas and the integrity of their decisions, 

not the gender they were born, that they deserve the right to the same amount 

and same quality of education as men, the right to be awarded as many scholarships 

as men, the right to earn as much income as men, and the right to receive an 

equal amount of respect for their work as men. 

          Women, like men, are endowed with certain unalienable rights, 

that among these are the right to control their lives and bodies as they choose, 

to enjoy the freedom to make their own choices, to be free from judgments 

about their choices, to work in an atmosphere without male harassment 

and degradation, to decide whom and when they will marry, to decide how 

many children they will have, to make financial decisions for themselves, 

to embrace a career of their own choosing, and to enjoy a life of liberty in the pursuit 

of their own happiness. 

Somewhere In Time -- Does Time Somehow Make It Better?

With the 2013 Academy Award winners freshly announced, I have decided to blog about a cult movie instead. Mainly because I've only seen two Oscar worthy films, Argo and Life of Pi. Argo helped to erase Ben Affleck's frightening performance in Shakespeare in Love, among the many movies he's afflicted. Life of Pi, on the other hand, wasn't a movie; it was a spiritual experience that I'm still digesting. One got best movie. The other best director. So maybe I don't have to see any of the others. 
         Not that I don't have an opinion about the nominees and winners I haven't seen. For instance, here's a picture from the Onion's hilarious review of Les Miserables, which will keep me from spending a single dollar on this film. [UPDATE: I saw it for free and it wasn't worth what I paid.] Amour is French, enough said. And Zero Dark Thirty may be too dark to sit through. So I haven't. I can't even name the others.

          But I digress. For the uninitiated, my definition of a true cult movie is one that probably disappointed at the box office and left the critics shaking their heads. Or the critics loved it, and despite their glowing reviews, nobody went to see it. Ironically, many of these same films often manage to eke out an Oscar nod or two. Usually for second tier awards like sound design, costumes, makeup, or best craft table. 
         Then fate steps in. Something beyond a film's failure to launch or make money emerges to capture a fanatically devoted audience  -- the kind that will memorize the dialog, wear silly clothes, have commemorative weekends, throw food at the screen, and make soap sculpture likenesses of the stars. And so a cult is born.
         Rocky Horror Picture Show may be the best example of cult hit celluloid, described by Wikipedia as "Still in limited release nearly 38 years after its premiere." Even as we speak it's playing at midnight on weekends near me. 
         Harold and Maude, Spinal Tap and Office Space would also make my cult list and usually rank pretty high on others. You might also choose A Clockwork Orange, a film that always makes me cringe or Clerks, which will never fail to put me to sleep. 
         One obscure cult film that didn't make Entertainment Weekly's Top 50, but still makes mine is Phantom of the Paradise. It's a terrible Brian DePalma attempt at satire, which I could probably say about any movie he's ever made. Regardless, I was still happy it made at least one list I found, since I once spent up and close and personal time at Second City with Gerrit Graham, who plays the movie's unanimous cult favorite, "Beef". 
         Again, digressing. 
         For my own foray into the world of cult movies, I watched Somewhere In Time again -- a triumph of hope over experience. It's been twenty years since I first rented the Christopher Reeve, Jane Seymour, Christopher Plummer vehicle. Like any good cult flick, it tanked at the box office, got horrible reviews, and didn't catch on until cable was invented. No doubt, because there was nothing else to watch.
         Since its original release in 1980, this movie has spawned a website, a 20-page quarterly newsletter, a CD of John Tesh arrangements, and a costumed weekend every October at The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, where the movie was shot. But that's not all!! Coming this spring to a stage in Portland, Oregon will be Somewhere In Time -- THE MUSICAL. 
          According to the International Newsletter for Somewhere In Time Enthusiasts [INSITE] there exists a huge rock on Mackinac Island with a plaque to commemorate the exact spot where Richard [Reeve] and Elise [Seymour] first meet each other. It's also the location where Elise speaks one of the movie's two memorable lines, the mysterious, "Is it you?" 
          According to her interview on the DVD, Jane Seymour claims that what she actually said sounded more like, "Is it a Jew?" So they had to re-record [loop/ADR] her voice to fix it. The other famous line is at the outset, when the actress who plays the elderly Elise character approaches Richard [Reeve] and hands him a watch he doesn't know is his. She says to him, also very mysteriously, "Come back to me." More on the rest of that moment between them, later.
         As I said, the flick totally tanked at the box office. And most of the reviewers held their noses to avoid the stench of treacle. Critic Vincent Canby couldn't contain himself. To paraphrase his 1981 review -- "Somewhere In Time did to romance what the Hindenburg did to dirigibles." 
         First the good news about this movie. John Barry's score is terrific. He's still making money on the backend, since he wisely decided to defer his fee to insure that the movie got made. His music, along with Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on a theme by Paganini, No. 18, is not only inspired, but arguably the best part of the movie. 
         Jane Seymour never embarrasses herself. She's gorgeous as usual. Her clothes are stunning throughout. Sadly, one of the $30,000 beaded gowns she wore was heisted before the film wrapped. She and Christopher Plummer are both trained, bonafide actors. They manage to speak their lines with convincing believability. 
         The time travel story, from the novel with the tortured Shakespearean title, "Bid TIme Return," is actually rather intriguing. Oprah would appreciate its many full circle plot conceits. In fact, a European physicist tracked down the director to say that the film was the first to do a passable exposition of Einstein's time and space theories.  
         Now for the bad news. Which brings me to Chris Reeve. 
         First, let's agree on a couple of things -- Christopher Reeve was taller and better looking than any man has a right to be -- 6'4", with dark hair, chiseled features, and piercing blue eyes. Never has a combination of nose, eyes, mouth, chin, hair, and body type conspired to look so good. Even more annoying, he was smart and athletic, as well as an accomplished pilot, sailor, musician and horseman. He also got to marry his wife, Dana, a woman he loved at first sight. To Dana's credit, she wasn't quite so sure how she felt about the Cornell grad, who completed his degree with a year at Juilliard. By all accounts, he was a good guy, self-deprecating, fun to be around, and a fighter for worthy causes, using his celebrity and connections to raise money to cure paralyzing injuries after his own horrific injury several years later. 
         Despite all that, my second viewing of SIT did not start well. I was barely five minutes into the movie when I burst out laughing. And not in a good way. 
         To set the stage for this disaster, we are in the present, as Reeve's character enjoys the adulation of his friends, following the successful staging of a play he has written. 
         The camera follows an elderly woman from behind, as she slowly approaches him, gently putting her hand on Reeve's back to get his attention. We never see her face during all this. When he turns around to look at her, instead of smiling in surprise or wonder, he assumes a look of abject terror, making us think she's been maimed or deformed or suffered some other catastrophic disfigurement. Nope. She looks just fine, thank you. Reeve was just A-C-T-I-N-G. Later, in a picnic on the floor with Seymour, after their night of love, Reeve's acting is mannered and awkward, almost embarrassing to watch. 
          In his favor, I have the feeling that the director may have been the problem, but later in the DVD, a producer suggests that Reeve wasn't chosen for his acting ability; he was picked for his Victorian good looks. And, at that, he excels. On the other hand, he plays some scenes like he was still Clark Kent in Superman, the film he had just finished. SPOILER ALERT: Perhaps Reeve's most notable acting travesty in SIT was his death scene at the end of the movie. It was, in a word, deathly. However, he seemed to manage a real tear before succumbing to his fate. 
          The movie stumbles around, changing tone, unable to decide whether it's a French farce or a time travel romance doomed to crash and burn. Is it a love story between an old fashioned Juliet and her modern day Romeo? Or Superman in a Mack Sennett comedy?
          Perhaps Somewhere In TIme became a cult staple because the handsome and otherwise gifted Reeve had his career shortchanged when he became a quadriplegic. Maybe, like Candice Bergen, who flailed in her early film attempts. he might have gone on to become a iconic TV character. Or win an Academy Award like George Clooney, who spent years as a journeyman actor. 
          For now he lives on as a revered cult icon in this nostalgic homage to his former self -- a truly terrible film -- starring a once and perfect young man, who might have been king.  
                  

What's Love Got To Do With It? A Belated Reflection.

For some reason, as I shuffle closer and closer to seventy, the stuff of Valentine's Day is only in my dreams. Given my propensity for emotional napalm and other incendiary female devices, there are many people of the male persuasion who are thankful I'm finally down to my last sip of estrogen. Certainly my parole officer welcomes the passing of this imminent danger. 
         Meanwhile, last night, in lieu of a life-size, realistic, genuine latex replica of Hugh Jackman, I managed to conjure up a whole night of dreams about one of my longest, most confusing, and utterly contrary relationships. Since that describes most of them, I will have some 'splainin' to do. But first, let me digress. 
         The good news about having a father who had about as much warmth as an emotional vampire, is that I have a gift for dealing with very difficult men. The bad news is that I am a magnet for those very same difficult men. Go figure. 
         To continue this digression -- as a child of the "anything goes" sixties, one might assume that along with white gloves and pearls, all the old rules about never kissing on the first date and never having sex until he said the "L" word have not been in play for the last forty years. You would be right, of course. But with the freedom of unfettered experience comes a knowledge of male pattern badness that I like to call, "Don't play with fire." 
         Combine difficult men with their fire-starter capabilities and you can see my dilemma. How to insure that their smoldering eyes reflect the flames of love and not the fires of Hell.
         On more than one occasion, in the safety of my sleep, I have managed to conjure up more than one guy from my past in the wee hours before Valentine's Day. One took me dancing in the clouds. Lovely. Unfortunately, those dreamy experiences are the closest I've been to real thing as the chocolate begins to melt all over the sunset of my life. [My apologies for that visual.] The good news? At least I don't have to shave.  
         Which brings me to my latest Valentine's Day dream about a guy who could always light my fire. But he suffered from a case of male pattern badness that was so extreme, I was concerned about third degree burns. So for years, during our up close and personal days, no matter how many times I was tempted, I kept putting him off, as it were. 
        Now here he was, a complete figment of my imagination, and I was still pushing him away.
        Farkin-A, what was I thinking? He had even taken the time to show up in the upright and locked position. No complaints from me, since this was my imagination at work. So what was the hold up on my end? Aren't dreams supposed to be a chance to make wishes come true? When anything and everything goes. When you can be who you want. Do what you want. Or do whomever you want. [Ever notice how awkward grammar can be at just the wrong time?]
        For some reason, despite many past opportunities, and obscene lack of consequences, all my dreams -- Valentine's Day or not -- are so grounded in reality, i.e., do the right thing, that I might as well be awake. Geez, what's the point of that?
        My Valentine's Day dream was about someone I coulda, woulda, shoulda told, "Just do me." Instead it became a continuation of my ongoing debate with him, "I think you're very attractive, and more fun that anyone I know, but emotionally, you're like playing with a cobra." All true of course. But what a load of blah blah blah. We mustn't. We shouldn't. I can't. I won't.
        WTF, Mrs. Linklater, you're dreaming. It doesn't matter. 
        Needless to say, I woke up sorely disappointed with my moral compass in tact on Valentine's Day. 
        But I'm older and more reckless now. So, I called him up. In real life. Not so much to stoke the fires of former passion. That requires effort. Let's just say I rattled his cage a little and had some fun taking a poke at the bear. The upshot?
         Like Emma Stone says at the end of Crazy, Stupid, Love, "This is going to be fun."