Things that charmed me today: Eric doing the math for "Seven-and-a-Half-Cents" in his head, figuring inflation rates for the appropriate years, and concluding that while the song exaggerates the twenty-year returns of a seven-and-a-half-cent raise by about fifty-seven cents per hour, it's worth it for the line "I'll have myself a buying spree and buy a pajama factory / Then I can end up having old man Hassler work for me." This while programming Readercon; I had put on The Pajama Game (1954) as work music and halfway through the first chorus he starts talking. Eat your heart out, Hines.
Things that did not charm me: Karl Malden. I found out from TCM; The Barefoot Contessa finishes and all of a sudden they broadcast a beautiful little montage of his film work, with birth and death dates at the end. He had an excuse, being ninety-seven, but I am still sorry to see him gone. I may take this as a cue to rewatch A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and On the Waterfront (1954), if anyone cares to join me in a few weeks.
On the other hand, this article about screwball comedy is all the things I have tried to say about the genre for years, only better:
Welcome to another world—of sleeping cars and porters, automobiles that start with handles and stop without warning; of starlit ocean liners, long-distance buses and auto camps. Luggage, purses, clothing, memories, identities and minds will be lost. Almost everyone can render popular tunes in close harmony and dance, but almost nobody can safely carry a tray—crockery and silverware will be dropped. The books here have titles such as Why Snakes Are Necessary and archaeologists post each other bones that don't exist. Telephones are vaguely monumental, ring as loud as fire bells, and are ignored. Even face-to-face communication is confused. This may be in part because three or four people will often talk at once and at speeds that are medically ill-advised. There could also be animals around. And a great deal of falling—over logs and feet and sofas, into ditches, into water, into love.
That's a film festival I could always find time for.
Things that did not charm me: Karl Malden. I found out from TCM; The Barefoot Contessa finishes and all of a sudden they broadcast a beautiful little montage of his film work, with birth and death dates at the end. He had an excuse, being ninety-seven, but I am still sorry to see him gone. I may take this as a cue to rewatch A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and On the Waterfront (1954), if anyone cares to join me in a few weeks.
On the other hand, this article about screwball comedy is all the things I have tried to say about the genre for years, only better:
Welcome to another world—of sleeping cars and porters, automobiles that start with handles and stop without warning; of starlit ocean liners, long-distance buses and auto camps. Luggage, purses, clothing, memories, identities and minds will be lost. Almost everyone can render popular tunes in close harmony and dance, but almost nobody can safely carry a tray—crockery and silverware will be dropped. The books here have titles such as Why Snakes Are Necessary and archaeologists post each other bones that don't exist. Telephones are vaguely monumental, ring as loud as fire bells, and are ignored. Even face-to-face communication is confused. This may be in part because three or four people will often talk at once and at speeds that are medically ill-advised. There could also be animals around. And a great deal of falling—over logs and feet and sofas, into ditches, into water, into love.
That's a film festival I could always find time for.
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