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The dearest things I know are what you are
And it came to pass that being unable to attend the Catgirl Goth Rave, to which I had non-hyperbolically been looking forward for months, I resigned myself to doing not much of anything with my Friday night beyond experimenting with molasses cookies and reading the second volume of Michael Powell's autobiography, both of which are fine things in their own right, but rather lacking in glowsticks and cat ears. And then I saw that TCM was showing something called A Letter for Evie (1946) with Marsha Hunt and Hume Cronyn, the former a stranger to me, the latter—I tracked down Lifeboat (1944) and The Seventh Cross (1944) and The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) in the days long before Netflix just so I could see him in another role besides Professor Elwell, all right? I imprinted on him and Walter Slezak at an early age. And it was a variation on Cyrano de Bergerac, taking place between a shirt-factory secretary, a shy dendrologist, and the platoon lothario during World War II, with recurring motif by Jerome Kern. Jules Dassin did tempt me and I did watch. And considering the mood I was in at midnight, it was kind of exactly what I needed. Thanks, TV. Who knew?
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I remember when I found that out, I think only a few years before he died. It made me happy.
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They were married from 1996 until his death in 2003.
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I don't know if it's available on VHS or DVD, but I recommend finding out. It's not perfect as either a romantic comedy or a Cyrano retelling, but frankly, there are few perfect movies in the world. I'm glad this one exists and hasn't been entirely forgotten; it's another of these Golden Age B-pictures, like The Canterville Ghost or Three Strangers, which I love because their stars are ordinarily only the supporting players. And although there are some wobbles here and there, I appreciated that someone in the world was sufficiently annoyed by aspects of Rostand to write a version where Roxane gets to be angry at Cyrano for lying to her.
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I was very surprised, but not complaining.
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I don't know. There's TCM, but it's one station. (Tonight they are running five films with Ronald Colman, so I am borrowing Eric's DVR.) There really should be more.
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I'm hoping for next year.
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Nine
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I hadn't even known there was a retelling of Cyrano de Bergerac with Hume Cronyn. If I had, it's exactly the sort of thing I would have wanted to see—Cronyn was a prolific and lovely character actor, but he was almost invariably cast as a heavy or a weasel: the sleazy lawyer in The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946), the sadistic prison guard in Brute Force (1947), the aforementioned killjoy of People Will Talk (1951), out to ruin a preternaturally benevolent Cary Grant; all the positive roles I associate him with are much, much later in his career—and therefore the sort of thing I would have despaired of ever seeing, because it's not on DVD and not famous enough for the Brattle and since when does TCM cater to my every oddity-loving whim? But there it was, unasked for. All things considered, I would probably rather have been well enough to attend the Catgirl Goth Rave. But A Letter for Evie was awesome enough to avoid being a consolation prize.
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Nine
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The current state of my physical stamina would not allow it. If it had been taking place at someone's house, I would have chanced it on the theory that I could always have collapsed in a bedroom for some hours while everyone else danced; but this year an actual venue was involved and I really didn't want to destroy my ability to move for the next week. It is very frustrating. Hence the turnup of A Letter for Evie was so fortuitous, because it was nothing I'd planned and nothing I'd even known about and a delight to watch; I felt a lot better afterward.
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It was so unlike the usual order of the universe, I'm pleased with it.
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This is a good thing. I'm pleased for it.