The last few days have been blurry. Of course, it could be that I need a new eye prescription, but I don’t think so.
Hawaii lingers on the mind, the odor of plumeria and tropical breeze, the song and raucous cries of mynah birds. Black earth, white coral, both scorched by the sun, but gently … gently.
Wednesday morning I woke up and stared out at the view from my room lanai … the mountains in the distance, the palm trees–somehow more fragile there than in California–waving against a bluing sky.
A little later, I ate breakfast–how I miss the papaya!–and attended the awards brunch, loving Lee Goldberg’s humor and Rhys Bowen’s wonderful version of “I’m Evil” (she’s also a fabulous singer!) and Barry Eisler’s story about taking a long, hard fall in Japan. And jumped up with everyone, cheering on Bill and Toby Gottfried to a so well-deserved standing ovation. Then my world erupted into a kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and absolute wonderment.
I was, and am, immensely honored at my nomination, and so proud to be listed among writers whom I admire so much as artists and people and friends. I can’t really remember anything except the kaleidoscope and somehow making it to the stairway of the podium (thanks to the kind souls in the audience who were shouting “Go around, Kelli!”) … and wondering how I’d keep from either crying or imitating Sally Field or just freezing. I don’t remember what I said — it was a moment when words fail wordsmiths.
All in all, it felt a little like some kind of wonderful, spectacular concussion … and it was a moment I’ll treasure the rest of my life. Thank you, LCC and the amazing, incredible mystery community–and thank you, Hawaii. 🙂
I managed to get home on the red eye, red-eyed, no sleep. Slept a bit on Thursday, a little more on Friday, and then it was off to Sacramento and Authors on the Move, a formal gourmet dinner fundraiser for the Sacramento Public Libraries. Great fun, getting to drink Buena Vista pinot noir, meeting lots of other authors from all genres, and talking to three different tables of patrons about books and writing. Borders handled the book sales, a percentage of which went to the library, along with the profits from the live auction … all in all, a spectacularly fun and exciting event in California’s capital.
My luck held on the way back … after a drive of more than 90 miles, our front tire went flat as we pulled into a Trader Joe’s parking space. So it was an emergency visit to Sears Auto Center (Sears is a kind of family tradition), the only one open on a Sunday. We made it home, bedraggled, with my mom (who attended the Sacramento event), and dog in the back seat. And a lot of not-so-fresh produce from the Valley. You should see the size of the oranges!
And now back to work and focus … though at the moment, I’m enjoying the blur. 🙂
It seems as if I’ve just arrived, just adjusted myself to a warm, slower and less hectic environment, and now–Wednesday–I go back to my beloved San Francisco and embrace the cold and the stress and the bustle all over again.
I’m not complaining–Noir City is my physical and spiritual home–but let’s just say I understand the allure and hospitality of the Big Island–and I plan to return with my family for a vacation.
It’s been a wonderful, wonderful conference–and I thought I’d share my top ten reasons why Hawaii makes for a really special LCC conference destination …
1. It’s warm, but not too warm. Yesterday the sun fully embraced us, and it was magnificent. The humidity isn’t overbearing, the sunshine gentle, and the mountains in the distance still have snow.
2. Relaxation. I’m not actually sure if I’ve ever relaxed at a conference before this one … at least without alcoholic help … and a constant state of motion and excitement is its own fun (Thrillerfest in New York, for example). But it’s wonderful to be able to relax without falling asleep!
3. Nature. Conferences tend to be held in urban centers, from New York to Chicago to San Francisco. The only kind of wild kingdom we usually get to see is the kind we write about in crime novels. To catch a glimpse of a mongoose in a parking lot–fish slipping between rocks and darting out of holes in ancient fish ponds–multi-colored birds flitting from fronds or to wake up to the myna birds outside your lanai–you instantly feel more connected to the Earth. And that’s a good thing. You may even see wild goats and donkeys on the road between Kona and Waikoloa … instead of the familiar deer silouette on the highway warning sign, you’ll notice longer ears and shorter legs.
4. Culture. It doesn’t take long–maybe two minutes?–to immediately feel the unique and special cultural heritage of Hawaii, and its genuine, welcoming spirit.
5. Waikoloa Marriott. A fabulous, open resort hotel, with a good restaurant and beautiful grounds.
6. Fresh papaya and passion fruit juice. Where else can you get served exotic fruit for your continental breakfast? Where else can you where fragrant flowers around your neck?
7. Diversity. In culture, nature, and things to do … you can venture up a volcano, go horseback riding on a ranch, bird watch, take a sub tour, and get up close and personal with whales.
8. Luaus. On Sunday night we saw dancers, fire throwers/eaters, drummers, and enjoyed a veritable feast. If it’s not in Hawaii, it’s not a luau–it’s just Grease II.
9. Cocktails. All those fruity drinks with the paper umbrellas actually belong here. I enjoyed a Blue Hawaii last night in honor of Elvis.
10. When you wake up, you’re in Hawaii! And that’s enough.
I’ll blog tomorrow after I recover from the red-eye and share a wrap-up of my final day today … but right now, I’m going out on the lanai and listen to the myna birds.
So it’s my first time in Hawaii, the conference is fabulous, and now that my cognitive abilities are reasonably restored (though never reasonable), some of my impressions …
I arrived Sunday morning, amazed to land on the tarmac (yay for tarmacs!) rather than one of those long airport tubes. It was raining, a mystical, tropical warmth of big drops falling with a gentle touch on the black, rugged land all around the tiny airport.
The airport itself consists of small brown wooden buildings with open air exposure, dark brown, more like what I’d imagine as tasteful amusement park architecture, if that’s not an oxymoron.
I bought a lei of plumeria and orchids (amazing fragrance) at the airport … and yeah, I’ve heard the joke about sixteen times now, so quit sniggering.
Volcanic mountains rise up in the distance … to the south, the island is green and lush. To the north, black sharp rocks–a more than century-old lava flow–drape the land, creating a disconcerting contrast to the pre-formed ideas of paradise. But then — the aloha spirit. On the way to the Waikoloa Marriott — a mostly new complex of hotel, garden, pool, beach, palm trees and shopping malls called the King Shops and the Queen’s Marketplace–you see words spelled out in white shell against the sombre lava-black. Words that pay tribute, words that honor and remember, words that testify to love, whether it’s Angie plus Daniel or in memory of someone lost.
No “graffitti”. That wouldn’t honor the land. That wouldn’t honor the people. And that wouldn’t, from my limited experience, seem to be Hawaiian.
People are friendly here, aloha and mahalo not just words in a tourist booklet or left on a recording when you’re on phone hold. I’ve learned that Hawaii is a beautiful place with an ugly epidemic: crystal meth, called ice on the island. There’s also an older crisis, the disparity of wealth between the land-owners and the poor, a demarkation of inequity that stretches back to the plantation era.
Hawaii is a land of contrast. Like aloha written in shells on the black, sharp rock.
I want to learn more about it … and will.
And in the meantime, the conference is amazing. Louise Ure and Gillian Roberts and Bill and Toby Gottfried and Janet Rudolph, and all the dedicated volunteers have done an incredible job … fascinating panels, exploratory side trips, movies, even a Sunday night luau.
Yesterday morning we enjoyed a spectacular debut author’s breakfast sponsored by Mystery Scene … followed by two debut panels. People are talking, sharing, drinking mai tais, admiring the flora and fauna (I saw a mongoose!) … and relaxing. The rain has stopped.
And underneath it all, the aloha spirit … a specific and special evocation of the generosity and humanity that always defines the mystery writing community. Hawaii and Left Coast Crime belong together. I’m so glad I’m here.
I’m on my way to Hawaii tomorrow–first time there. This year’s Left Coast Crime is the “unconventional convention” and it promises to be a slap-bang load of fun and frolic and originality … and with events like movie nights and a theatrical production and a dessert spectacular, it truly is unconventional.
While I’m flying tomorrow–in between writing deadlines–I’ll be thinking about the journey that brought me to Kona. NOX was nominated for the Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery Award, and what an amazing, incredible honor to be listed with fabulous writers I admire so much: Rhys Bowen, Laurie R. King and Tasha Alexander. And I’ll be thinking about my family and friends, and how they teamed up to figure out the economics of getting me to the Big Island. And I’ll be thinking about the writing community, and what a wonderful, generous and supportive group it is, and how privileged I am to be a part of it.
I’ll be thinking about noir, too–I’ll be giving a talk about film noir for one of the “Talk Stories” at LCC, fifteen minutes of author freedom. And I’ll be researching and writing, too.
Above all, I’ll be giving thanks. No, it’s not November … and yes, I’m a noir writer. But writing about noir also means being able to appreciate what we have and how lucky we are to have it.
Those who know me know I take film noir very seriously. I was honored to find our friends at The Rap Sheet give a nod to WID and my Noir City reporting in late January. And then … and then …
What happened? Did I drop off a log? Did my fedora fall over my eyes? Did I (gasp) not go to the festival?
None of the above. What happened was … well … there’s no other way to explain it. GOOD NEWS. And–as any noirhead knows–good news–particularly the kind of toe-squirming, technicolor, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland and Busby Berkeley musical dream-come-true good news–is not conducive to the dark and usually wet streets of Noirville.
Here’s what happened. Right before the last weekend of the festival, I accepted a two-book deal with Thomas Dunne/St Martin’s Minotaur for my 1940 San Francisco PI noir, RICE BOWL. And, to tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling a little, well, musical-ish ever since. More like Maria in The Sound of Music than Mildred in Mildred Pierce. More like the first book’s Harry Potter than the fifth’s. I am thrilled beyond belief, and wake up telling myself that it’s real and it’s fabulous, and that it’s not all a flashback from an unreliable narrator.
So naturally, I had to let some time pass before I could stop seeing rainbows and properly tackle my normal habitat. I write noir, after all. And RICE BOWL is both of the noir world and upends it. But more on it–lots more on it–later. We’ve got time, and this post is for the smash-bang closeout of the greatest film festival in the world.
Now keep in mind that I’m still a working girl, and I unfortunately can’t see everything. I squeezed in Thursday to see The Big Clock (1948) on the big screen, and a treat it was. Based on the terrific novel by Kenneth Fearing (I bought a tattered first edition last year)–the movie was shot beautifully by the underrated John Farrow (Mia’s dad–he married Maureen O’Sullivan, a co-star in the film, during the shooting). Ray Milland was charming, debonair and reassuringly confident in the midst of tension (the script sported several light-hearted touches), Charles Laughton was delightfully controlling and villanous, femme fatale Rita Johnson (They Won’t Believe Me) more appealing than the rather pallid Maureen, George Macready (the creepy Nazi Ballin in Gilda) appropriately smarmy, and Elsa Lanchester stole every scene she was in with a comic role as an artiste. Rounding out the cast was Henry Morgan as a murderous masseur/thug (and if you’ve only thought of him as Sherman Potter, prepare yourself) and Louis van Rooten as a radio actor (which he was in real life).
For me, the real star of the movie was the set design by Hans Dreier, which was truly a marvel to behold. Sort of prefigures the Bond sets in terms of size equalling threat, yet with a Deco panache that was quite beautiful. All in all, a classic, and not to be missed.
Perhaps even more enjoyable (and like The Big Clock, this was not my first viewing of the film) was the Claude Rains’ vehicle The Unsuspected (1947), which aired the next evening.
Why Michael Curtiz has never been accorded auteur status is due to the fact that he was brilliant in every genre. Here, his Expressionist background in light and dark gradually draw us into a gothically forbidding world of dread and suspense. Rains has never been better or more charming. The plot concerns a radio show host (think of “Suspense” or “Escape” or “The Whistler” if you know classic radio) whose secretary is found hanging above his desk. But we know it’s not suicide from a brilliant opening sequence that makes full use of the audio and visual to create a panoply of noir beauty and thrills. Audrey Totter steals every scene she’s in … sashaying around and calling everyone “lover” but her husband. Constance Bennett proves wonderful and an equal scene-stealer in an Eve Arden like role. The movie is so well-directed and acted by these three–and the always enjoyable noir heavy Jack Lambert–that you overlook the woodenness of Michael North, who apparently retired from acting after making it. Hurd Hatfield (title role in The Picture of Dorian Gray) chews the bar in half as the debauched painter husband of Audrey. And Joan Caulfield is charming, if not particularly memorable, as Rain’s niece. But it really works … and it’s not on DVD but occasionally is shown on TCM, so watch for it! Second billing that night was Desperate (1947), which I’ve also seen (this is what comes of watching noir all the time), albeit not on a big screen. An early Anthony Mann effort, the cinematography and shot set ups prefigure his greatest work, and the film is worth seeing if only for one spectacular “interrogation” scene by gangster Raymond Burr. Steve Brodie plays a truck driver gulled into participating in a heist. After a threat to his wife (the appealing Audrey Long), he’s determined to get her somewhere safe before going to the cops (even if it means stealing cars along the way). His character makes the words “trust me” a bit comical, but the film is great entertainment, with a lot of interesting touches (a Czech wedding!).
Finally, my last foray into Noir City was the Fritz Lang thriller Beyond a Reasonable Doubt (1956). Again, this was the second time I’d watched the film, and on the big screen–and with a second viewing–my appreciation and admiration for it grew enormously … just as Foster Hirsh, who introduced the film along with Noir Czar Eddie Muller, said it would. Joan Fontaine is the independent love interest of a writer (and I’ve got to say, I really enjoyed the lines about deadlines and writing and publishing) played by the always noirish Dana Andrews. Her father–his soon-to-be father-in-law–is a newspaper man vehemently opposed to capital punishment (Sidney Blackmer). Dad’s got a great idea–how about if someone innocent frames himself for murder, gets convicted, is sentenced to death, and then produces evidence of innocence … wouldn’t that prove the folly of relying on circumstantial evidence and make people hesitate before sending convicts to the chair? Sure it would, Dad-in-law … sure it would.
The film has been remade for release later this year, with Michael Douglas and the young Amber Tamblyn, who has the excellent taste to name The Asphalt Jungle as one of her favorite movies. Director/writer Peter Hyams also helmed the Gene Hackman/Anne Archer remake of The Narrow Margin. So see the original before you see the remake.
And watch it more than once … it’s really terrific, though filmed on an incredibly cheap budget. As a bonus, the delightful Barbara Nichols–real life former model and burlesque queen, always memorable and a scene-stealer in The Sweet Smell of Success–plays the role of (you guessed it) a stripper. She steals these scenes, too.
The festival closed with The latter film–maybe Burt Lancaster’s greatest performance–and a new print of The Killers … but alas, it was a Sunday, and I was wrapped up in work and good news.
I’ll be back with more films noir–and more of everything–later. In the meatime, keep your cigarettes dry and your bourbon wet, and if someone asks you to frame yourself … think twice!
The loyal denizens of Noir City were treated to a visit by Hollywood Royalty last night. The Film Noir Foundation and a sold-out theater of 1,407 lucky film-goers paid tribute to the legendary Arlene Dahl, va-va-va voom girl and wonderful actress. What a night … and what a Dahl!
The evening began with an ode to nostalgia: this year, as part of the Newspaper Noir theme, newspaper boys–and girls–dressed in the archetypal hat and knickers of legend, roam the waiting lines of the festival, hawking free Noir City programs to eager ticket holders. Last night they yelled “Extra, Extra–Arlene Dahl in person between shows!” It’s a great gimmick, and the kids were wonderful … and I’m betting it helped sell a few more Chronicles and New York Times, too.
Ms. Dahl arrived to applause from the hundreds of people waiting in line, accompanied by her husband, Marc Rosen, and actor son, the gallant and handsome Lorenzo Lamas. A bit later, passport holders were allowed into the theater for a fabulous reception, complete with cocktails made with the official Noir City spirits Rain Vodka and Eagle Rare Bourbon (my poison was bourbon and soda, natch), and a sumptuous feast of hors d’oeuvres. Ms. Dahl, as gorgeous as ever, graciously signed autographs and posed for pictures, while her family watched proudly. Then … the movie. WICKED AS THEY COME (1956) was a star vehicle for Ms. Dahl, showcasing not just her amazing beauty, but her formidable talent. She portrays an impoverished, working-class girl who scrambles over a chain of men into a rich marriage … only to have her past catch up to her with disastrous results. What do you expect? This is Noir City, baby!
The film is reminiscent of the pre-code Stanwyck masterpiece Baby Face, but offers an interesting twist (and one that indicates how obsessive filmmakers were with psychology and juvenile delinquency in the mid-’50s): Ms. Dahl’s character, Kathy Allen, harbors an emotional block against intimacy and a pathological hatred of men not because she is as “wicked as they come”, but because she was the victim of a horrendous crime in her early adolescence. Heady stuff–and Ms. Dahl’s performance was perfect. Philip Carey and Herbert Marshall ably rounded out the star list, and the film was sumptously filmed–on location in Britain–by Basil Emmott. Director Ken Hughes may be more famous for his British Double Indemnity noir, The House Across the Lake (1954) — and for directing the only Ian Fleming musical, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) — but WICKED AS THEY COME is a wonderful piece of filmmaking, and a shining example of Ms. Dahl’s tremendous talent.
After the credits, the screen segued to a delightful series of film clips from Ms. Dahl’s films, everything from song and dance numbers (Three Little Words) to melodrama (Woman’s World) to historical noir (Reign of Terror–shown at last year’s Noir City) to fantasy adventure (Journey to the Center of the Earth). Audience favorite was probably the steamy clip from Sangaree (1953), in which she co-starred with husband Fernando Lamas. What made it even more memorable is the fact that Lorenzo had never seen his mother on the big screen before last night.
Noir Czar Eddie Muller then brought Ms. Dahl to the stage for a champagne toast and a tremendous standing ovation. Gracious, delightful, and a mesmerizing conversationalist, Ms. Dahl discussed her origins in show business, her work, her equally legendary co-stars, and paid tribute to both the Castro’s own beauty as a movie palace and to the adoring audience. The time passed too quickly … and after another standing ovation, Ms. Dahl and her family made their way out of the theater, accompanied by the sound of applause and the hearts of 1,407 habitues of Noir City. The second film then aired: a technicolar and Super Scope 1956 feast called SLIGHTLY SCARLET, starring Ms. Dahl and friend and fellow redhead Rhonda Fleming. If you don’t think noir can be shot in color, think again. John Alton–probably the foremost master of shadow and light to grace Hollywood–made the oranges and greens and blues and purples as lurid as a black and white Bowery gutter.
The story was ostensibly based on James M. Cain’s Love’s Lovely Counterfeit, but the script rambled, sometimes into incoherency. The plot involved the ostensible clean-up of a crooked Bay City by “publicity man” John Payne, who is actually an underling of the mob boss his clean-up machinations overthrows. He uses his knowledge of Rhonda’s relationship with the newly-elected goody-two shoes Mayor (she’s his secretary–and what a secretary!) and her younger sister’s klepto- and nymphomania (played to the delicious and perfect hilt by Ms. Dahl) to manipulate them into helping him with his coup. The problem is that despite Payne’s charisma and able performance, his motivation is unclear and underwhelming, and the movie doesn’t flesh out Cain’s plot well enough to make you sympathize with him. Ted de Corsia turns in his usual spectacular character performance as the overthrown Little Caesar, but Ms. Dahl, as Dorothy Lyons, steals the show … and not just in her leopard print swim suit, but in a captivating, convincing performance of mental illnesss that made me wish she’d been able to play Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep.
Veteran director Allan Dwan wisely kept the camera on the eye-popping scenery–Rhonda and Ms. Dahl against a symphonic technicolor backdrop. SLIGHTLY SCARLET may have suffered from a weak script, but with star power like that, you can quote Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past … “Baby, I don’t care.” I’m a working girl, so I’ve got to leave the mean streets for a few days, hopefully to return on Thursday. In the meantime, keep your powder dry and watch out for redheads … they spell terrific trouble in Noir City!
Last night it rained in San Francisco. It always rains in San Francisco for two weeks in January–when she opens the Golden Gate to murder, lust, corruption and cheap cigarettes.
Yes, it was Noir City night at the Castro Theater, and Bay Area residents let the rain drops drip from their fedoras, and sauntered over to a sold-out movie palace to pay tribute to urban poetry. Noir Czar and Czarina Eddie Muller and Anita Monga have programmed a punchy, timely and provocative theme this year–Newspaper Noir, from the days when the press didn’t mean smarmy, politicized gossip from ill-educated and attention-seeking hacks.
… or did it?
One thing a steady dose of noir will teach you–and I’ve been dipping into it for a long, long time–is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. So last night we were treated to two films that dealt with the distintegration of news to sensationalism and the tawdry manipulation of fear and wish-fulfilment ala “reality tv” … only the year was 1952.
Just as the internet threatens — and some would say, has sealed the fate — of the printed “wuxtry!” that was the most popular and affordable media of its time, back in the early ’50s the threat was TV. And then–as now–the owners of said news outlets wrestled with what to do. The first film, Richard Brook’s DEADLINE–USA, is an obit for the ethical newspaper man … the current editor and now-deceased owner who believed in the power of the press and in the dignity of the human being. In newspapers that function as social outlets, the voice in the wilderness crying for reform, the byline that isn’t afraid to speak the truth to the masses, not just cater to their taste for sensationalism.
And what a movie … no film about the press captures its allure and its power and the Sophie’s Choice of its purpose–to report or to exploit?–better than DEADLINE. Only the sardonic comedy of The Front Page and its remake, His Girl Friday, comes close at all.
Richard Brooks (Brute Force) wrote a snap-crackle screenplay, sharp with wit and observation, and matched it with flawless direction. Humphrey Bogart is perfect casting as the epitome-of-decency editor, Ethel Barrymore also perfect as the owner’s widow who regains her self-respect and fighting spirit in battling to save the paper her husband founded. No one–and I mean no one–ever played those parts as well as Ethel, my favorite of the Barrymores. The always believable Kim Hunter rounds out the stars of the cast as Bogie’s ex-wife, but the film really sang with stellar performances by some terrific character actors. Fleshing out the roles of reporters were Paul Stewart (Citizen Kane, The Window, Kiss Me Deadly) perfect as the tough sports writer, Jim Backus in an understated and convincing performance as the gossip man, Warren Stevens as a cub reporter determined to get the story, Broadway actress Audrey Christie as the hardboiled press dame, and Ed Begley as Bogie’s right-hand man. Martin Gable owned the part of Rienzi, the untouchable city crime boss, and never overplayed a moment (it’s the kind of role Rod Steiger would have chewed to bits).
Uncredited and virtually unknown actress Kasia Orzazewski portrayed the immigrant mother of a crime victim and dominated a moving scene late in the film. This was a character actress made for noir. Though her filmography is unfortunately tiny, she played small but memorable bits in three other top-notch noirs: Call Northside 777, Thieves’ Highway (one of the very best) and I Was a Communist for the FBI. Watch DEADLINE-USA if you can catch it on TCM, and advocate for its release on DVD. It’s a truly great film, and a loving ode to the power of the press … baby.
SCANDAL SHEET rounded out the opening night double-feature, and Broderick Crawford–always a superb actor–makes a dynamic and convincing editor, one who can recognize the merit of a story to emotionally manipulate the “slobs” that increase his tabloid’s circulation. Yes, ladies and gentlemen–this was tabloid “journalism”, and the year was 1952. “Yellow” journalism is something you might remember hearing about in your high school history class, often linked with the name “Hearst”. While Bogart and his paper recognized the power of the press and lived up to the moral responsibilities that came with it, Crawford and his Board of Directors — despite hypocritical complaints about “immorality”–recognized the power and exploited the hell out of it.
Give the public what it wants … a sucker is born every minute … you get the idea. The more lurid the content, the more cheap and tawdry and trashy the stories, the more exploitative of people’s victimization or misfortune, the more the circulation numbers shoot up–up–and up. It’s Noir City, baby … and it’s also tomorrow’s headline. Ironically, Crawford’s downfall begins with his reality-show-type creation of a Lonelyhearts Club, purely a publicity stunt designed to prey on the saps. It all seems so (unfortunately) modern–but Queen for a Day had been around for years (radio and then television), and no other show before–and possibly, since–so shamelessly milked false sentiment from dried up mammary ducts.
SCANDAL SHEET’S twists are many, and they all start to tighten around Crawford’s thick neck. Y’see, he kills his ex-wife, covers it up, and then his star cub reporter–the dreadful John Derek–decides to solve the crime … all in the name of circulation.
Donna Reed is terrific as the moral yet sexy good girl, Rosemary de Camp gives the performance of her life as Crawford’s ex-wife, Harry Morgan is acid and biting as the cynical photographer, and character actors Henry O’Neill and Griff Barnett give excellent performances as two men who pull Crawford’s noose ever tighter. And there are some amazing shots of amazing character faces playing rummies in the Bowery. As Morgan acerbically observes, “That does it–I’m not taking another drink.” SCANDAL SHEET, ably directed by Phil Karlson (Kansas City Confidential) and based on a Sam Fuller novel, only fell short with its second lead John Derek. Though he offered a brash sort of energy reminiscent of Tom Cruise, Derek was completely unconvincing in every role I’ve ever seen, and this, sadly, was no exception. Possibly cast to capitalize on his earlier portrayal of Crawford’s son in All the King’s Men, an actual actor would have been a much better choice. Still, the film’s treasures outweigh Derek’s feather-light performance.
Noir City continues tonight with a tribute to leading lady Arlene Dahl, and yours truly will be back with more … for now, pay honor to the power of the press … quit reading this blog and buy a newspaper, baby!
Before Noir City starts tomorrow and I immerse myself in amour fou, sweaty obsession and rain-darkened streets, I have to indulge in something on the opposite end of the spectrum … purely joyful and purely heart-warming.
So what am I talking about … a Capra movie? The end of The Christmas Carol? An episode of The Waltons?
Thankfully–at least regarding The Waltons–no. I’m talking about the amazing generosity and support that exists in the crime writing community. It’s not the first time I’ve encountered it, but for the last two days I’ve been privileged to be dramatically reminded of it.
Here’s the story: my first book–NOX DORMIENDA–was nominated for the Bruce Alexander Memorial Mystery Award. And it’s in the company of writers I deeply admire and friends I deeply care about–Rhys Bowen, Tasha Alexander, Laurie King. I am stunned, honored and humbled.
Since the announcement yesterday, I’ve spent a lot of time responding with thanks to the well-wishes and voices of encouragement and support that have poured in … and again, I shake my head in wonder at the sheer niceness of this industry. At talks, the audience always laughs whenever I mention that crime writers are the most wonderful–and just plain nicest– people in the world. But it’s true. Criminal minds, warm hearts. 🙂
To top off all this, the generosity of friends and family is what is allowing me to say “aloha” to Hawaii … to actually go to Left Coast Crime, which just two weeks ago was beyond my reach.
I’ve started to do my research, and just discovered “aloha” also means love.
A couple of weeks ago, I was tagged for another meme-thing on Facebook … Linda Richards, top-notch idea woman that she is, inspired me to reuse it here. I like the idea of reuse, make do or mend … why limit a perfectly good meme to the Facebook environment?
Like everyone else apparently, I’m excited about the Inauguration. I’ll be recording it for viewing after work. And I’m hoping that the number of newspaper special editions it sells will help keep our remaining dailies in business …
Speaking of which, Noir City is this Friday, January 23rd … Noir City, a font of inspiration and sweaty, heady obsession … Noir City, the premiere film festival in the world, the dreamchild of the desperate, the deranged and the dangerous. Noir City. The name says it all, baby. And of course I’ll be there, holding my Noir City passport. No shots this year–I’ve been inoculated before.
This year’s theme ties in with the sad decline of journalism and the inky magic of tangible print–yes, it’s Newspaper Noir, and the lead film is the Humphrey Bogart vehicle Deadline, USA. Noir Czar Eddie Muller‘s father was a byline sports columnist for the San Francisco Examiner, and believe you me, these films will all pack a nostalgic wallop of the long-gone world of real journalism … you know, before news became merely opinion.
Somehow, Eddie always pulls rabbits and magic out of his many hats … this year’s festival will be really special (and Arlene Dahl is the guest!), so forget economic news or post-holiday blues–find a million dollar baby at San Francisco’s Castro Theater, because Noir Days Are Here Again. One more thing before the meme: I was saddened to learn that Ricardo Montalban passed away. A charming, ever-urbane man of wonderful talent, charisma and personal appeal, he enriched a bleak television landscape with fun and fantasy, and graced a number of good films with his presence. One of them was a hard-hitting noir, helmed by Anthony Mann and lensed by John Alton: Border Incident. Coincidentally, it’s airing on TCM on the opening date of Noir City (Friday, January 23rd), so if you can’t come to San Francisco, you can pay tribute to both noir and Montalban by watching this fine film. I’ll post a review of it soon … in the meantime, see the trailer here.
Now … the sixteen bits of personal trivia. I was originally tagged by legal eagle and thriller writer Ken Isaacson, and the MWA Maven herself, Margery Flax.
1. Ken now owes me at least two drinks at the next conference for getting “The Pina Colada Song” stuck in my head.
2. Confession: I’m a sap for any song that features classic Hollywood … “Bette Davis Eyes” … “Vogue” … and, yes, even “Key Largo” (We had it all … just like Bogie and Bacall!)
3. I was the only girl in my kindergarten play. I played the little billy goat in The Three Billy Goats Gruff–and not knowing that billy meant male, I wore a pastel dress and a hair ribbon.
4. When I was six I wanted to be a paleontologist.
5. My mother tells me I used to love the Beatles when I was a baby.
6. My first pony’s name was Sugarfoot. My second pony’s name–when we moved to Florida–was Rascal. My first horse’s name was Mahalia. And my mom knew Mahalia Jackson.
7. I am very proud of whistling well.
8. I collect comic books and paper ephemera from the ’30s and ’40s for research and pleasure.
9. My Mae West impression won the role of the courtesan in The Comedy of Errors for me.
10. I’m an incurable Romantic. That’s why I write noir.
11. I almost attended UC San Diego and was accepted there as a Chemistry major … I thought about becoming a cosmochemist.
12. I attended the University of Dallas on a scholarship as a Drama major instead.
13. I’m the first person in my family to graduate from college.
14. I’m a coal miner’s granddaughter.
15. My background is half Polish and half English, Irish, and Scottish with some Choctaw thrown in.
I’m not sure that “meming” is a word — but it’s January, so new words are allowed. How else do little dictionaries grow?
This is the month of Noir City and post-holiday cookie sales … a month of anticipation, back-to-the-gym promises, of hope and resolve and potential. Of dark, rainy streets projected in glorious 35mm on the Castro Theater screen, of sunshine in San Francisco backyards, and a new inauguration for a New Deal and a New Day in Washington.
You can probably tell I like January.
This week, I’m meming … it’s a receding economy, and in the spirit of “make do and mend”, and “reduce, reuse, recycle”, later this week I’ll post a meme originally created on Facebook. Today, though, I’ve got a new one for which I was tagged by that talented dame of hardboiled fiction, Linda L. Richards.
You may possibly be wondering exactly what a “meme” is. In the context of Bloggerville, it’s one of those response-oriented lists that float from tagger to tagger, wherein you list five foods you won’t eat, seventeen most embarrassing moments, seven times you’ve broken the law or three impossible things before breakfast.
You know the kind of thing. Here’s a link to more specific definitions, but their real purpose is to save a busy blogging world a lot of time and let you discover trivia about other people.
So–drum roll, please … What book, movie and television show makes you cry the most?
(And keep in mind that I give good weep. From the “Old Yeller cry” (the horrible cry of loss) to “LaMarseillaise cry” (the choked up cry of sentiment, in this case over the singing of the Marseillaise in Casablanca), I cry at, over and for a lot of things.)
Book: I might cry over my own if I get a particularly nasty review. I first read Tess of the D’Urbervilles, The Return of the Native, and Jude the Obscure (all by Thomas Hardy) as a young woman (and re-read them subsequently), and I cried buckets. The sound of my tears used to wake my mother up in the middle of the night. They’re among the most powerful novels in English, and Jude the Obscure, hands-down, is the most gut-wrenchingly devasting book I’ve ever read. Only Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath comes close.
Two more get honorable mentions: Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and Ayn Rand’s We, the Living. The latter was one of my favorite books, and I used to harbor dreams of making it into a movie (I’m far from being a political disciple of Rand’s, but she was one hell of a writer.)
A special section might be devoted to children’s literature: I cried over the Harry Potter saga as an adult, and as a kid used to wail over Charlotte’s Web. Movie: The aforementioned Casablanca scene always makes me cry. But It’s A Wonderful Life makes me cry from the opening scene, just in anticipation (voiceovers of various cast members are praying for George Bailey). I avoid sad animal movies entirely. Crying is a catharsis, and if you’ve experienced the loss of a beloved pet, you realize crying doesn’t help. I don’t need an entertainment vehicle to remind me of it.
Television Shows: TV mostly makes me cry in horror–especially the “Queen for a Day” reality programming. Most television–which, when I was growing up, was all network–is presented in bite-size chunks, making it much more difficult to sustain the emotional connection necessary. So I don’t think I’ve cried at TV since the last, farewell episode of The Mary Tyler MooreShow. And for some reason, probably related to why I’m a noir writer, Carol Burnett used to make me teary whenever she dragged out that damn old bucket to play the scrub-woman. I’m sure I would’ve cried at the last episode of MASH, too, but I was rehearsing for a play in college–and the little (#$^@ student director thought that directing meant being a dictator, and forced us to miss the episode. This in the days of no TiVO. I’m still holding a grudge.
