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And our care lies in the telegraph poles and the taxi to the station
Today I had blocked out for work interspersed with lying on a couch, but then shortly after dinner I discovered that the Brattle was showing Ida Lupino's Not Wanted (1949) which I had not been able to see in New York in November, and so I raced out into the black-ice night to view an incisive and compassionate drama about what may still be called unwed motherhood and it was great; I hope to write about it and I may go back for The Bigamist (1953) tomorrow. Then I got on the bus to come home and despite my loudly broadcast signals of reading this book, not making eye contact, not interacting a man talked to me about his medications, his roommates, what a beautiful girl I was, who were my parents, was I going home to my boyfriend, he has a good memory for faces, he hopes to see me around soon. I kept hoping he would get off the bus before I did so that he would not see even in which neighborhood I lived. He did not. He tried to call my stop for me. So I got home in a rather more elevated state of adrenaline than I had left the theater. But I'm three for three so far on Lupino's filmography and that's nice, Mrs. Lincoln. I am trying to decide if I would call this one, too, a noir.
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It's not commercially available so far as I know, which is why I bolted for it on a night which I had planned to spend more or less prone. The restoration came courtesy of Kino Lorber and looked very nice. They really need to release a box set at least of her written and directed films.
I'm sorry about the creep on the bus.
He managed to sound totally normal and affable while ignoring every single unsubtle cue I threw his way. Oscar Shapeley lives and I wish he wouldn't.
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Creeps who are smart enough to maintain plausible deniability are the worst kind.