“I think there is a little of Beckett in everything I have done.” — Monte Hellman

Today is the birthday of the one-of-a-kind American-B-movie-but-also-French-existentialist film director Monte Hellman, who died last year.

For a really good roundup-overview of this iconoclastic American director, check out David Hudson’s “Monte Hellman’s Sly Humor and Existential Dread” over on Criterion – ostensibly a roundup of all of the pieces written about Hellman in the wake of his death last year, but also provides a chronology and background of this outlaw-director who got his start, as so many did, on Roger Corman’s B-movies.

I’ll never be “over” Monte Hellman, and I will never stop being surprised by films like Ride In the Whirwind or The Shooting or the road movie to end all road movies, Two-Lane Blacktop. There is something uncapturable in their sense of existential space, the space fraught with the tension of waiting for some indefinable event that may never come. Hellman was Beckettian in sensibility and outlook.

The month after his death, I wrote a tribute on Monte Hellman for Film Comment.


Monte Hellman and James Taylor during the filming of “Two-Lane Blacktop”.

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“Nothing can prevent me from making films.” — Jafar Panahi

panahi-540x304

It’s his birthday today.

Jafar Panahi should need no introduction, but just in case

Jafar Panahi is an Iranian director with an international reputation, and a daunting list of films, many of which were made under terrible conditions (The White Balloon, The Mirror, The Circle, Offside, Crimson Gold, This Is Not a Film, Taxi, Closed Curtain). Harassed and persecuted for years (Panahi’s films were openly critical of the regime, in particular its barbaric treatment of women), Panahi was finally arrested and imprisoned. Tortured. He went on hunger strike. The situation made international news in 2009/10/11. Released from prison, Panahi was placed on house arrest until the verdict. When the verdict finally came in, it was devastating: 6 years in prison, as well as a 20-year ban on making films. No travel, no interviews. Panahi is in his 50s. This is a lifetime ban.

HOWEVER:

More after the jump.

Continue reading

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Happy Birthday, Thomas Mitchell

Interesting that Thomas Mitchell and Bruce McGill were born on the same day (scroll down). I said in the piece about Bruce McGill that McGill is in “the Thomas Mitchell tradition” and the “Thomas Mitchell tradition” is quickly vanishing from the face of the earth. This is due to multiple factors, but mainly it’s the loss of the character actor tradition. Now of course there are still character actors, but it’s just different now. There’s more work (ironically) but less chance for these people to really shine, unless they’re cast in prestige television that everyone watches. Like Sopranos or Six Feet Under – which didn’t cast glorified hotties overall in smaller roles, but honest to goodness character actors who have been around since the 70s and 80s. People like Thomas Mitchell, back in the Golden Age, would show up in things – often playing variations on a theme – and people would feel comfortable, happy, like he was their uncle up onscreen.

What is striking about Thomas Mitchell is the variety of his roles, the breadth of “people” he had in him! His gift was astonishing, and it never seemed like he was just mimicking someone else. He could be genuinely lovable and also genuinely NOT lovable. Both seemed natural. He could be competent and damn near romantic (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) and he could be incompetent and eccentric (It’s a Wonderful Life).

He is one of my favorite actors of all time. I’d put him toe to toe with any of the great leading man actors any day of the week. Thomas Mitchell made OTHER people look good. He won an Oscar for his performance in Stagecoach and was nominated in the same category (Best Supporting) for Hurricane. Let’s talk about his other awards. He won the New York Film Critics Circle Best Actor award for Long Voyage Home, and since I am now a member of that illustrious group I feel pride. He was nominated three times for an Emmy, winning once. He also won a Best Actor in a Musical Tony Award, bringing him into the rarified category of people who have won Oscars, Emmys and Tonys. If he came out with an album and it won a Grammy, he’d reach EGOT status.

I was thrilled to pay tribute to him in the March-April 2018 issue of Film Comment, focusing on his terrifying performance in Moontide, definitely one of his lesser-known films, but filled with fascination. Mitchell is truly scary in it and he’s doing so much with it, including playing the gay subtext consciously. He knew exactly where that character was coming from and did not try to hide it. The piece isn’t online, although you can purchase it. It meant a lot to me to pay tribute to him, and put that performance into the context of the rest of his illustrious career. He never really played another role like it.

Well, WE all did.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

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Happy Birthday, Bruce McGill

Bruce McGill is one of those actors who would have fit in perfectly with the old studio system: a first-rate support player, a guy who can do anything: drama, comedy, farce, who can fit into any context. He’s in the rarified Thomas Mitchell tradition. Thomas Mitchell was as good as any A-lister ever was. Better. And so is McGill. He can come from any region of the country. He can be sentimental, he can be sincere, funny, broad. He can be tragic, naturalistic, or stylized. There’s nothing the guy can’t do. He is, like most character actors, a far better actor than most established movie stars, in terms of scope and versatility, and any project he is in is better because of his presence.

I have a special fondness for his performances in two episodes of Quantum Leap, episodes which bookend the series: first and last.

In the final episode of Quantum Leap, McGill plays the bartender who, in a mysterious knowing way, shows that he is the key to the entire experiment. He has been there all along. The way he plays his scenes with Scott Bakula is with just the right amount of kindness mixed with opacity, seasoned with a sort of individualistic tough love, smiling at Bakula’s bafflement, but not cruelly. Never cruelly. He gives his scene partner space to figure it out for himself. It’s a wonderful piece of acting (and just gets better with repeated viewings).

He makes other actors better, just by being in a scene with them.

Al Pacino, in The Insider, does some terrific work, not as self-involved and egomaniacal as some of his more recent performances have been. His movie-star persona fits nicely with Lowell Bergman in The Insider: Pacino can play to his strengths. He is a speech-maker, bombastic, and Pacino does his schtick where he talks quietly and deliberately and then suddenly explodes on one or two words … While I have been tired of that Pacino schtick for a decade or more now, in The Insider it works, it is in service to the story. It is not just Pacino trying to “make something happen in the scene” by being randomly loud and then equally as randomly quiet.

But let me tell you: Nothing Pacino does in The Insider, nothing Russell Crowe does in The Insider, can come close to the power and electricity from Bruce McGill’s one big moment in that courtroom in Mississippi: “Wipe that smirk off your face!

Pacino and Crowe have other concerns. I don’t mean to make an unfair comparison. They carry the picture, they have to modulate and gradate their performances in scene after scene, showing the slow transformations of their two characters. They do stellar jobs. But in a movie such as this, with so many elements, so many different sections, you need power-hitters in the smaller parts. You need someone who can come up big when you need him to. A Big Papi of character actors. In giant ensemble pictures, with mega-watt movie stars in lead roles, it is essential to fill in the second-and-third-tiers with talented and sometimes-anonymous character actors. The old studio system knew this well. The new Hollywood doesn’t always realize this. They have forgotten. Character actors are there to provide reality and depth, to ground the movie stars in a world that we, the audience, can recognize. Character actors look like us. They help us think this story is happening in the real world.

In a film such as The Insider, with so many terrific moments from the lead actors, it is heartening to see how much time and weight is given to these secondary characters. The film is cast brilliantly, and the casting is really WHY the film works. (Any director worth his/her salt knows that 90% of their job is casting well.) The contributions of the three leads – Pacino, Crowe, and Christopher Plummer – are substantial. But without Debi Mazar, Lindsay Crouse, Philip Baker Hall, Colm Feore, and the spectacular Bruce McGill, our beautiful movie stars would be acting in a vacuum.

Bruce McGill’s contributions to a film like The Insider are not, in general, pointed out or celebrated. They are taken for granted. They’re appreciated, but in an invisible way. This is the blessing and the curse of the character actor. McGill wouldn’t be nominated for an Oscar for The Insider. The part is too small. But if you want to see an actor tap into what my acting teacher in college called “the pulse of the playwright”, if you want to see an actor easily illuminate every single thematic element of the movie as a whole – without being didactic or obvious, if you want to see an actor who understands that every element of a film is like a fractal (what is happening in the top tiers has to be happening in the lowest tiers too), if you want to see an actor enter a film and, with only one or two moments, remind us of the stakes, so urgently, so ferociously, that he makes all else pale before him, if you want to see a guy stroll away with the entire picture – watch Bruce McGill in The Insider.

What Bruce McGill doesn’t know about acting probably isn’t worth knowing.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

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“When liberty is taken away by force it can be restored by force. When it is relinquished voluntarily by default it can never be recovered.” — Dorothy Thompson


Dorothy Thompson, 1939: testifying in Congress to repeal the Neutrality Act.

“They are holding every Jew in Germany as a hostage. Therefore, we who are not Jews must speak, speak our sorrow and indignation and disgust in so many voices that they will be heard.” — journalist Dorothy Thompson, radio broadcast, 1938

American journalist Dorothy Thompson, whose birthday it is today, manipulated her way into an interview with Adolf Hitler in 1931, before he became Chancellor. Thompson had been keeping a close eye on him since the “beer hall putsch” way back in 1923, which launched him into national prominence. She also posed as a Red Cross worker to infiltrate the German High Command – and it worked! She got interviews with high-ranked generals, people who were extremely suspicious of any and all press.

Thompson was one of the few American journalists – hell, European journalists, ANY journalist – who instantly recognized the threat of him, devoting her career to warning people about him in her radio broadcasts and newspaper columns

Her interview with Hitler was published in a 1932 issue of Cosmopolitan, and caused a firestorm of horror and revulsion (as well as understandable envy from other journalists). It was a major scoop. The article was eventually published in book form.

The interview is fascinating. She was not “just the facts, ma’am” … she adds her impressions and conclusions:

“[Hitler] is formless, almost faceless, a man whose countenance is a caricature, a man whose framework seems cartilaginous, without bones. He is inconsequent and voluble, ill-poised, insecure. He is the very prototype of the Little Man. A lock of lank hair falls over an insignificant and slightly retreating forehead. . . .The nose is large, but badly shaped and without character. His movements are awkward, almost undignified and most un-martial…The eyes alone are notable. Dark gray and hyperthyroid—-they have the peculiar shine which often distinguishes geniuses, alcoholics, and hysterics…There is something irritatingly refined about him. I bet he crooks his little finger when he drinks a cup of tea.” — Dorothy Thompson, “I Saw Hitler”, 1932

Thompson had peppered Hitler with interview requests until finally he granted her one, probably assuming he could snow her because she was a woman. He underestimated her – and Thompson’s article has been criticized for underestimating him. But she spoke the truth of her impression: he seemed like a nonentity, a Nobody. This criticism ignores Thompson’s deeper psychological insights. What she saw was a nobody, a Little Man, and not a powerful intimidating warrior at all … he seemed like a little bone-less guy with a bad haircut who put on airs.

Since the 1930s, many many scholars have examined Hitler as a Nobody, a Little Man, an uneducated and easily-swayed nonentity. An incel, really. It’s dangerous when a “Nobody” gains power. (J.P. Stern expanded on this idea in his excellent book, Hitler: The Fuhrer and the People – which I wrote about here). While he was in the trenches of World War I, Hitler had a “revelation” about Germany’s destiny (he described this in Mein Kampf so nobody can say they weren’t warned), and he set out to bring his prophetic “vision” into existence. This is a deep topic, and goes beyond the scope of this “birthday post” but what I want to point out is: Thompson didn’t say “I don’t think Hitler – this little weakling – can do much damage.” She knew he was damaging: she perceived it earlier than most journalists did (the populations Hitler targeted felt it immediately, of course). Her perception of Hitler as a man prone to “hysterics”, her perception that his “refinement” was bogus … it all adds up to a hit piece not just on his policies, but on his psychology. It’s a hit piece on him PERSONALLY. Her article says: “I see through you, you little bully.” “I Saw Hitler” was damning, too, because a woman wrote it. Nazis extolled womanhood but only of the domestic breeder variety. Men who prefer women submissive forget something very important: due to millennia of political and social/cultural oppression, women are accustomed to keeping their mouths shut and navigating AROUND men, who have been barriers to their advancement. Women are far more familiar with male psychology than men are familiar with female psychology. We have to keep a close eye on men for our survival. Because of this, women see through male bullshit in an instant. Men are more prone to buy each other’s bullshit. Thompson did not buy the bullshit, perceived the Emperor had no clothes, and she also – importantly – perceived the dangerous sway he held over Germany. She called it out.

Hitler was, of course, apoplectic when the article came out.

Thompson was bureau chief in Berlin. She was considered so dangerous she was expelled from Germany, the first foreign journalist to get that “honor.” She came back to America, continuing to sound the alarm, to urge Americans to take the threat seriously. She testified before Congress in 1939, asking them to repeal the Neutrality Act (see photo above).

Also in 1939, a terrible year, maybe the worst in the 20th century, Thompson attended the Nazi rally at Madison Square Garden organized by the German American Bund Society. 20,000 people were there, arm bands ON, Sieg Heils at the ready. Terrifying. An almost forgotten moment in US history, although we’re seeing it play out again in real time.

Dorothy Thompson was there as a journalist. Journalists are supposed to be objective, right? Put their “biases” aside, right? Well, Thompson had different ideas. She saw her job as a truth-teller and she knew the Nazis were dangerous and if the Nazis won millions would die. So she sat there in the press area, and loudly heckled the speakers. She burst out in derisive laughter at their statements. She caused a scene.


At the 1939 Nazi rally at Madison Square Garden: Dorothy Thompson heckles the speakers.

The Nazis around her were so furious at how she was raining on their fascist parade, a ruckus ensued. She kept heckling. The people around her heckled her. The situation was about to spin out of control when the police intervened and escorted Thompson out of the arena. Just like she was expelled from Germany for speaking out. So think about that: in the land of the free and the brave, she was criticized for speaking the truth, too.

She wrote about the vulnerabilities in our political system and how America should not be complacent about our immunity from this mental disease:

No people ever recognize their dictator in advance. He never stands for election on the platform of dictatorship. He always represents himself as the instrument – the Incorporated National Will. When our dictator turns up you can depend on it that he will be one of the boys, and he will stand for everything traditionally American. And nobody will ever say “Heil” to him, nor will they call him “Führer” or “Duce.” But they will greet him with one great big, universal, democratic, sheeplike bleat of “O.K., Chief! Fix it like you wanna, Chief! Oh Kaaaay!”

Thompson was married to Sinclair Lewis. Her work inspired him to write his spookily prophetic novel with the bitterly sarcastic title It Can’t Happen Here. Lewis speculates on the kind of man who could swerve America away from democracy, echoing his wife’s prophetic words above. Lewis, too, sensed our vulnerabilities, the cracks in our system through which tyranny could slip. They both were right on the money.

Along those lines, Thompson wrote a fascinating piece for Harper’s Bazaar called “Who Goes Nazi?“. In the article, she looks around a hypothetical dinner party filled with a diverse group of Americans, and guesses which ones will “go Nazi” and which ones would be immune. It’s really something, that piece. It checks out.

Kind, good, happy, gentlemanly, secure people never go Nazi. They may be the gentle philosopher whose name is in the Blue Book, or Bill from City College to whom democracy gave a chance to design airplanes—you’ll never make Nazis out of them. But the frustrated and humiliated intellectual, the rich and scared speculator, the spoiled son, the labor tyrant, the fellow who has achieved success by smelling out the wind of success—they would all go Nazi in a crisis.

This brave smart woman was on the right side of history. To quote contestants on reality TV shows: Thompson wasn’t “here to make friends.” But she was right about the Nazis and she knew she was right. In situations where peer pressure acts as a silencer – where consensus is stifling – think WWDTD? (What Would Dorothy Thompson Do?) Journalists especially should ask themselves that question. They should be asking it now. They are failing.

Dorothy Thompson is a role model and hero.

“A little more matriarchy is what the world needs, and I know it. Period. Paragraph.” — Dorothy Thompson

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“Art is theft, art is armed robbery, art is not pleasing your mother.” — Janet Malcolm

It’s her birthday today. She died in 2021.

I started out with The Silent Woman, many years ago, her book on the challenges of writing about Sylvia Plath, particularly in lieu of the draconian Plath estate, run – Shakespearean-ly – by Ted Hughes’ sister Olwyn who always hated Sylvia. It’s a fascinating and troubling book about the issues of legacy, narrative, who gets to tell whose story, who “holds” the story, and – finally – acknowledging the upsetting fact that Sylvia Plath has been “silenced” by her own estate. (This is no longer the case, 30 years later. About time.)

Many of Malcolm’s books are about the art of writing itself. She was ambivalent on the subject. Similar to Susan Sontag’s ambivalence in re: photography, Malcolm wondered if writing – particularly non-fiction writing and reportage – served any purpose at all. Malcolm’s eye was unsparing. She interviewed people, and they crucified themselves by their own words.

All writers should read The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. Malcolm’s writing was so dominating it often got her into trouble: there were numerous controversies in re: her quotations. On more than one occasion, Malcolm had to produce her original notes in order to prove such-and-such conversation took place. On more than one occasion, Malcolm could not locate said notes. Not good. She was often “in trouble” like this. So: take this for what you will. In other words: don’t take what she says as the gospel truth.

Malcolm is probably most well-known for The Journalist and the Murderer: her most brutal book. Malcolm was incensed by Joe McGinniss’ best-selling “true” crime book Fatal Vision, about convicted family annihilator Jeffrey MacDonald. What angered Malcolm was McGinniss’ trickery. The writer pretended to be MacDonald’s friend and supporter in order to gain the accused murderer’s trust, McGinniss pretended the book he was writing would be a defense of MacDonald, when in actuality it was going to be an indictment. Very unethical. Malcolm didn’t care about MacDonald’s case, but she went after Joe McGinniss hard. She was appalled, you can feel it in the prose. The book started out as an article, which caused a sensation. Her thoughts went against the almost universal accolades Fatal Vision received – and she elaborated the article into a short fiery polemic-book. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Malcolm destroyed McGinniss’ reputation. He never recovered. He’s still defending himself. To Malcolm, McGinniss was a symptom of a larger issue: Malcolm’s real interest was journalism itself, which you can also see in The Silent Woman, which is about Plath, but it’s really about the challenges of literary biography. Malcolm was not afraid to go after the entire journalistic profession:

Every journalist who is not too stupid or full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse.

Joe McGuinness’ book was a huge hit but was also “called out” for the author’s manipulations. Was it ethical to tell a subject you wanted to write a book hoping to exonerate them, and then … do the opposite? This was Malcolm’s beef.

Malcolm’s book about Plath is an investigation into Plath’s estate, showing the author’s grappling with her discoveries. She thinks out loud in her writing. Malcolm leads you through a maze of possibilities, and clarity vanishes: there are no answers in the book, no one villain.

I miss coming across her byline, in The New Yorker, or the New York Review of Books.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

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“I’m one of those people who thinks you can have a happy life and still be an artist.” — Shelley Duvall

Here’s the piece I wrote when Duvall died: The “pink stuff” of Shelley Duvall.

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

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“There’s a difference between writing about something and living through it. I did both.” — poet/novelist Margaret Walker


Photo by Carl Van Vechten

Margaret Walker was born in 1915 in Birmingham, Alabama. Her parents were interesting accomplished people, and her childhood was filled with literature and music. Her father gave her a love of heavy-hitters like Schopenhauer, classic English literature, all poetry, and her mother steeped her in music, ragtime, and read poetry outloud, from early African-American writers like Paul Dunbar (my post about him here) to Shakespeare. Walker’s great-grandmother was a slave in Georgia, and she heard stories about this from her grandmother. The diversity of all of these influences poured into Margaret Walker’s own work. She was a kid when the Harlem Renaissance started, and she read them all. She started writing poetry and submitting it for publication.

Her first collection, For My People won the Yale Younger Poets prize (she was the first Black woman to win the prize.)

The title poem is perhaps one of her most famous (it’s printed below). It’s an anthem. The collection is filled with memorable character sketches, a portrait of a whole diverse community of people. “People” has its regular meaning, and then it has its higher meaning, as an identity marker – A people, MY people. She writes about legendary African-American figures, like John Henry and Stagger Lee.

What Walker considered her life’s work, and she worked on it for thirty years, was the historical novel Jubilee, published in 1966. Jubilee was about a slave family, based on the stories her grandmother used to tell her. Walker also did extensive research into the period. The novel spans many years, from the antebellum era, through the Civil War, through the chaos of Reconstruction. I have not read Jubilee, although I remember it being on the little display on the table in the main room of the library where I worked after school in high school. It has a very memorable cover. So this is an oversight on my part. I’ve read her poetry (I have For My People), but not Jubilee. It was an important book (recently released in a 50th anniversary edition), and a commercial success, important because it was black history written by a black person, not through the eyes of a white writer. Black experience is centralized. Of course, though, when the book came out many white critics compared it to Gone With the Wind, as in “It’s the OTHER side of Gone With the Wind!” OR, even worse, criticizing her for upholding some myth of Southern antebellum life, in the same way Gone With the Wind did. The NERVE. Margaret Walker was so annoyed by this she wrote a couple of pieces combatting the comparison.

Margaret Walker was a professor of literature for almost the entirety of her life. A major figure in 20th century African-American literature.

Here are a couple of her poems. And I promise I will read Jubilee.

For My People
For my people everywhere singing their slave songs
repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an
unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an
unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the
gone years and the now years and the maybe years,
washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
dragging along never gaining never reaping never
knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor
and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking
and playhouse and concert and store and hair and
Miss Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn
to know the reasons why and the answers to and the
people who and the places where and the days when, in
memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we
were black and poor and small and different and nobody
cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to
be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and
play and drink their wine and religion and success, to
marry their playmates and bear children and then die
of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox
Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
people’s pockets and needing bread and shoes and milk and
land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled
and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in
the dark of churches and schools and clubs
and societies, associations and councils and committees and
conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs
be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now
rise and take control.

“Sit-Ins”
Greensboro, North Carolina, in the Spring of 1960

You were the first brave ones to defy their dissonance of hate

With your silence

With your willingness to suffer

Without violence

Those first bright young to fling your names across pages

Of new southern history

With courage and faith, convictions, and intelligence

The first to blaze a flaming path for justice

And awaken consciences

Of these stony ones.

Come, Lord Jesus, Bold Young Galilean

Sit Beside this Counter, Lord, with Me!

“Writers should not write exclusively for black or white audiences, but most inclusively. After all, it is the business of all writers to write about the human condition, and all humanity must be involved in both the writing and in the reading.” — Margaret Walker

 
 
Thank you so much for stopping by. If you like what I do, and if you feel inclined to support my work, here’s a link to my Venmo account. And I’ve launched a Substack, Sheila Variations 2.0, if you’d like to subscribe.

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“I believe what Camus says. When the curtain rings down, your job is done.” — Warren Oates

“My reason for being an actor, like most any other actor, is to really nail something important down, to really find something to say in my work. And I tell myself that if I am sincere about my work, I should understand the time I live in.” — Warren Oates

It’s his birthday today.

When Warren Oates smiled, sadness and grief billowed off of him almost visibly. The smile came either out of his pain – whatever that pain was – or was a defense against the pain. Either way, the pain was always there. Either way, I am hard pressed to think of an actor who makes me want to cry when he smiles.

Who replaced him? Who could play those roles now? It’s a moot question because Warren-Oates-roles aren’t written anymore. We have lost a lot in our understanding of human nature with the vanishing of Warren Oates from the screen, because he revealed things about humanity – about men, in particular – that The Powers That Be have a vested interest in suppressing. I don’t mean to sound paranoid. But seriously: perhaps only in the 70s was the burden of masculinity – the burdens of manhood – the LONELINESS of manhood – seriously and deeply explored. This was Warren Oates territory.

That smile. That smile trying to seem jolly and jocular and confident but … you could feel the anguish wafting out of him, beyond his control.

Kim Morgan is the Poet Laureate of Warren Oates. Her essay on Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia is essential reading: there’s been a lot of ink spilled on that film, but Kim’s is the one to read. She wrote and narrated a video-essay on Oates for Criterion’s release of The Shooting/Ride in the Whirlwind. Oates was Monte Hellman’s muse.

Along those lines, I touched on Oates a little bit in my tribute for Monte Hellman in Film Comment.

“I’m not angry because I’m not the leading man. Whatever they give me to do, I do. I don’t want to be typed but I have learned a lesson in patience and resignation. If it’s an anti-hero they want, I’m more than happy to oblige.” — Warren Oates

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Physical Media Booklet Essay podcast interview

The Physical Media Booklet Essay zine, brainchild of Sean Abley, now has an accompanying podcast, where Sean interviews each of the writers about their “booklet essay” (about a film that only exists within another film; in other words, a film that does not exist). I wrote about Living in Oblivion – the film seen being shot in the film also called Living in Oblivion.

These episodes are so fascinating! We each took a different approach. I love this! There will be nine episodes of the podcast, where Sean interviews us. Episodes drop weekly. There are two out so far.

My episode is now up for free on Sean’s patron: Gay of the Dead podcast interview.

You can purchase the zine on Sean’s store. You can also buy it on Amazon.

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