Happy birthday, Van Heflin! You would have been a hundred and eight years old today and your acting has been one of the lights of 2016,1 even in movies where you were very clearly better than your material. Having had a very medical start to my week (everything went fine), I really appreciate TCM scheduling a boatload of your filmography for me to recover with, especially since I've never seen four of these movies and there still isn't a good DVD of Act of Violence (1948). My plan for the foreseeable evening is set.
Otherwise I slept fifteen hours more or less straight and was only woken around three in the afternoon by Autolycus purring and grooming me into consciousness. Some hours later I was stir-crazy enough to leave the house to pick up a special order from Porter Square Books—Erle Stanley Gardner's The Knife Slipped (1939/2016), which I am only hoping lives up to its cover—and after that I was ready to sit down again for a while. I had clam chowder for dinner. Autolycus earnestly tried to slip his face into my chowder mug without my noticing, which did not remotely work. Hestia merely runs alongside me every time I walk into the kitchen, leaps up onto the counter, and emits an imperious mew to suggest that perhaps instead of pouring myself another mug of hot water I should be, radical new idea, feeding the cat? Who was fed within the last hour, but never let the facts get in the way of making your cat happy. I have been petting her instead and telling her that she is a good cat and she seems to agree with me.
We really need to get a couch so that I can fall over sideways onto it.
1. Links do not include Tennessee Johnson (1942), Count Three and Pray (1955), East Side, West Side (1949), Presenting Lily Mars (1943), or Grand Central Murder (1942), none of which got written up for one reason or another. I should like to, if only because one of these movies was great, three were a lot of fun, and one I don't even. Once I get my feet back under me, I'll see what I can do, but I make no promises at this end of the year.
Otherwise I slept fifteen hours more or less straight and was only woken around three in the afternoon by Autolycus purring and grooming me into consciousness. Some hours later I was stir-crazy enough to leave the house to pick up a special order from Porter Square Books—Erle Stanley Gardner's The Knife Slipped (1939/2016), which I am only hoping lives up to its cover—and after that I was ready to sit down again for a while. I had clam chowder for dinner. Autolycus earnestly tried to slip his face into my chowder mug without my noticing, which did not remotely work. Hestia merely runs alongside me every time I walk into the kitchen, leaps up onto the counter, and emits an imperious mew to suggest that perhaps instead of pouring myself another mug of hot water I should be, radical new idea, feeding the cat? Who was fed within the last hour, but never let the facts get in the way of making your cat happy. I have been petting her instead and telling her that she is a good cat and she seems to agree with me.
We really need to get a couch so that I can fall over sideways onto it.
1. Links do not include Tennessee Johnson (1942), Count Three and Pray (1955), East Side, West Side (1949), Presenting Lily Mars (1943), or Grand Central Murder (1942), none of which got written up for one reason or another. I should like to, if only because one of these movies was great, three were a lot of fun, and one I don't even. Once I get my feet back under me, I'll see what I can do, but I make no promises at this end of the year.
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