KayKay lived on the second floor. Her cousin Rachel and I were friends, and when I was short on money after my father and I had parted ways, I said I needed a place to stay and KayKay’s cousin said go see KayKay, she lives in a small complex downtown. She says it’s very friendly. You’ll like it there. So I visited KayKay one evening after work, or maybe it was a Saturday. I called her on her cell and she said be right down. I stood outside the gated complex waiting for her. Welcome to Rainbow Acres, dear. She opened the gate and I stepped inside a dark alcove which led to a courtyard. A kidney-shaped pool, surrounded by tiki torches, was the centerpiece of the courtyard. I talked to the manager about you, KayKay said. She’s waiting to meet you.

 

***

Central Palms had been nicknamed Rainbow Acres by the residents because there were so many queers living in the complex. KayKay was not a lesbian – a black girl in her late twenties, she had once slept with my underage nephew, who was sixteen at the time. He had slid under the locked gate very late one evening to meet up with her, an impossibility if you weighed a hair over 120 pounds. KayKay’s cousin – my friend – told me my nephew had hooked up with her cousin more than once. So he likes black girls, I said. Or maybe just girls, my friend said.

 

***

Rainbow Acres had thirty-six one bedroom units, first floor and second floor. There was a small laundry room, coin operated, at the rear of the complex, near the manager’s apartment. The manager, a tiny lesbian named Diana, was somewhere south of sixty, and lived alone. Rent’s due by the third of the month. Don’t be late – don’t make me knock on your door demanding the rent. Just slip the check under my door by the third, and there won’t be a problem. On weeknights, quiet hours begin at nine. Don’t cause any problems and there won’t be any. We’re a small, friendly community and we look out for each other. Some are working people and some aren’t, but we all respect each other. Got it?

 

***

I was in-between boyfriends. My boyfriend and I had recently split up – the first time – and I was lonely. I’d met another boy, I say boy but he was twenty-nine, and although I liked him, and was willing to go to the gym with him, something I would never do under loveless circumstances, we just didn’t click. I gave and he received, there was no back and forth between us. I once tried holding him in bed, a few weeks into our whatever it was, and he violently threw my hand off his stomach. I was shocked, and lay motionless for hours, not moving, as if nothing had happened. In the morning he said hey and gotta go and I’ll see you after work. It took me a few months to realize his heart was an ice pack and nothing I could do, no matter how much I loved him, or thought I loved him, would change that. I nicknamed him the refrigerator, and would only call him the refrigerator when referring to him in conversation with the few friends I had. It became so bad I started thinking of my old boyfriend. I had to maintain a laser focus to prevent strolling down any familiar paths.

 

***

I was attempting to repair a lamp when KayKay knocked on my door. I didn’t realize you were so domestic, she said. I’m not, but I can’t call my daddy every time something is broken. Why not, she said. I do. I laughed at her frivolousness. She held a bottle in her hand. I come bearing gifts, she said. Got any glasses? Once inside, she set the bottle of Chivas on the kitchen counter. I like my scotch like I like my men, aged twelve years. I burst out laughing. Your cousin warned me about you, I said. That bitch knows I’m right! I took two mismatched glasses from a cabinet over the ancient stove. Girl can’t you afford a matching set? I’m only part-time, I said.

 

***

May – I began stalking the refrigerator. I walked my bike out the apartment door, hunched my butt over the seat, my left foot on the left pedal, my right foot caressing the pavement. I opened the gate, a carefully choreographed motion which prevented the gate from slamming shut. I rode into the May night. It was very warm, at least ninety degrees. I wore black Dickies, a black T-shirt, and a baseball cap – I did not want to be noticed. It was nearly a three mile ride from my apartment gate to his house. I pedaled on streets I had known my entire life, their names clicking off miles in my head. Virginia, Thomas, Osborn, Clarendon. I was the only one on the street; everyone else was sealed away in a dark frosty cave, hidden from the day’s sun. The blue light of television screens peeped through windows, briefly highlighting my anonymity.

 

***

I saw him through the window, a glimpse of him through the curtains. He was on his bed, looking at a magazine of some sort. His hair was cut very short, the stubble on his skull so thick it resembled suede. I must have stared at him through the window for five minutes. He was completely under my gaze, an insect, and he had no idea anyone was watching him. I waited for him to do something, to touch himself, to get lost in the magic of his own body, but he only continued reading his magazine, his lips slightly open. Even alone, he was boring. I lay my bike down carefully and looked to my left, my right. The bedroom window of the house opposite his was dark. I knew his two roommates were not home. I kicked off one shoe and used my foot to pry off the other. I unlooped my belt and dropped my pants, hiding them in the sunburnt grass. I stripped off my T-shirt and wadded it into a ball, tossing it on the ground. My empty clothes were a sea of black fabric that reflected no light. I stood at his window in my boxers and socks. He flipped a page in his magazine, his lazy eyes getting smaller. I traced the outline of his body through his pants, his shirt. I placed my left hand on a windowpane and slowly pulled on the muntin until the window opened, the cool air of the house blasting against my naked chest.

 

***

June – I met him in the no strings attached section of craigslist. He had posted pictures of his penis online. Once I had his email I sent him a face pic. He was Asian, small, with an empty face. His online profile stated he was twenty-four. You big, he asked. Short and thick, I replied. Like a beer can, I wrote, with a smiley face after the sentence. Oh good, thick good. I live in _____, he said. Can you meet at my house? We have dinner here.

He was Vietnamese. His name was Tuan Dong, which seemed appropriate. He looked thirty-five, not twenty-four. Why were queers always lying about their age? The food was ok – bland, warm, too salty. I’m not really hungry, I said. He grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom. You really live here alone, I asked. Yes, he said. It was a big house for a single man – three bedrooms. I had my doubts – the décor didn’t match his blank page personality. His stripped off his clothes, then undressed me. He pulled my shirt over my head, giving me scarecrow hair. My penis was already hard when he slipped my boxers off. He paid attention only to the lower portion of my body, as if my legs were an instrument designed to allow my penis to move around. I catalogued his body as he knelt on the floor below me – smooth skin, unremarkable features, dark nipples, and a small but hard penis. He worked on me until I became lightheaded – Wait, I said.

We were both on his bed. He rolled over and opened the top drawer of a nightstand. As he did so, I looked at his butt. He had a nice butt. It had been a month since I’d had sex – at least with another person. I massaged his taut balls through his legs as he lay on his stomach, fishing for something in the drawer. He rolled on his back, a fold of blue cloth in his hand. It looked like a soft blue diaper, or a larger version of an eyeglass cleaning cloth. He carefully unrolled the material on the bed. Three thin stainless steel tubes lay on the cloth – each looked to be about twelve inches long, each with a metal bulb on the end of it. Rosebuds, he said. I don’t know what they are, I said. We watch video, he said. You’ll see. He retrieved a remote from the top of the nightstand, pushed a few buttons, and in a matter of seconds a video that had been paused started up where it had left off. On the screen, a man with a hard cock slowly pushed a thin lubed tube into his urethra, while his partner worked the button of his asshole like a telethon matron. I turned away, repulsed. I lifted his arm, kissed his armpit. He was nearly hairless. He continued watching the screen as I rolled his balls between my fingers, took his cock into my mouth. He moved in such a way that his genitals fell out of my mouth and were beyond reach.

You’re boring, he said. Why not try rosebuds? I envisioned my hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing the life from him. Would he struggle? He was small, delicate. He was weak and I knew it would be nothing, over in a moment. I don’t like pain, I said. It’s not painful, he said. It’s good – incredible! No thanks – maybe some other time. He sighed and lay back on the bed, watching the screen reveal its violent images. Having drove this far, I wasn’t leaving with nothing. I spat on his dick and rolled the foreskin over his glans, laughing because his penis was clammy and resembled a rice paper egg roll. He was as white and delicate as Lenox glass. What’s funny, he asked. Never mind, I said. I continued jerking him off, working his balls between my fingers. His upper legs involuntarily tightened, his breath quickened. He came on his belly, on my hand. It was a small amount – he’d probably masturbated earlier that day. As his dick softened he fast-forwarded through the DVD, frustrated that he couldn’t find a particular scene. I was bored. He obviously had no interest in making me come. I tugged on my dick a few times, disinterested in the whole evening, suddenly wanting a drink. Where’s your restroom? I asked. In there, he said. A closed doorway, which I’d assumed was a closet, led to a master bath. I pulled on my boxers, flipped on the light and washed my hands. I closed the door and tugged on my dick again, hard and fast. When I was about to come I twisted my body over an expensive-looking clothes hamper and lifted the lid, coming over a pile of soiled clothes. I pulled a dirty shirt from the hamper and wiped the tip of my dick on it. Fuck you, I said. When I opened the door I gathered my clothes and got dressed. I’ll see you, I said – knowing I would never see him again. See you, he said. His eyes never drifted from the television. As I closed his front door and headed toward my car I removed my car keys from my pocket and dragged a key deeply across the surface of the black Nissan Armada in his drive. I had something growing inside me, a nebulous hatred. I wanted to damage something, to draw blood. What was I becoming?

 

***

July – I responded to his m4m craigslist post. His name was Juan. My complex was gated, so if he was ugly I would simply turn around and head back to my apartment. He didn’t know my name, didn’t know which car was mine in the small lot behind the apartment complex. We agreed to 8pm and he was there, as promised. He was more handsome than his pic, which was rare. The sun had finally slipped behind a few tall palms and was threatening to extinguish itself. I opened the gate and let him in; he followed me to my unlocked door. Would you like a drink, I asked. Sure, he said. I massaged his crotch as he sipped his whiskey. I took his hand in mine and led him into the bedroom.

When I was younger, in my mid-thirties, I was more open to friendships that threatened to go nowhere. A friend of mine at work was a rock hound. My girlfriend and I collect rocks, he said. We go on hiking trips on weekends and set up a tent. Do you find nice rocks, I asked. Oh yes, he said. I’ll bring some in sometime. He was unassuming, in his mid-fifties. He was in good shape for his age. He had wiry white hair and a thin build. He often came to my desk during lunch break and told ridiculously inappropriate jokes. What do you say to a Mexican in a three piece suit, he said. I don’t know – what? Will the defendant please rise? With my Teutonic surname he obviously had no idea I was Hispanic. I tried imagining doing something as simple as camping with a loved one, but I couldn’t. Come to my desk when you have a moment, he said.

The cutting equipment costs about twenty grand, but I got all my equipment on eBay for seven thousand. An empty Crown Royal bag sat to the left of his monitor. Splayed on his desk were perhaps twenty stones. He picked each one up and told its story – a story older than both of us. This one is from California. I found it on a beach outside San Francisco. You ever been to Pacifica? I shook my head no. He told other stories. This one is from Washington state. The good ones sound like glass. He took a small pointed hammer from his desk and demonstrated. The polished rock had a glassy sound when he tapped it. He then picked up a small river rock and tapped it to great effect. Boring, he said. Can you tell? I picked up a greyish-white stone that had been cut in half. What appeared normal on the outside was filled with purple and blue crystals, an amazing world crushed and hidden under a million years of dirt. His cutting equipment had opened it up and exposed its beauty to the world. You cut and polish all these yourself? Yes, he said. I imagined him in his garage, with his rock hound girlfriend at his side. Is this what happiness is? Look at this one, he laughed, looking around to confirm that we were alone. He held a penis-shaped rock in his hand. It was approximately four inches long. I found it in a cave next to this one, believe it or not. He picked up a geode that resembled a vagina, its purple lips exposed to the world. They fit together perfectly, he said.

I climbed on top of Juan and something miraculous happened. As he was fucking me I came on his belly. This had never happened to me before – I had no idea such a thing could happen. I realized at that moment that I would always remember his name, the belt buckle riding below his navel, the way his hair fell on the pillowcase. I emptied everything I ever was onto him. After he came he was very still. He then rolled on his side, his head balanced in one hand. I’m married, he said. I have two daughters. Why do this? I asked. I guess I’ve always been like this, he said. I’ve always known. But my wife, I don’t know. Maybe she’s bored. He was quite handsome, late twenties. His daughters must have been very young. She has no idea? I asked. I don’t think so, he said. Maybe. I looked at his hand and saw the ring. Ever been with a married man before, he asked. Yes, I said. A boy in the army, I said. He was my friend. After we fucked, he never spoke to me again. Typical man, Juan said.

I don’t know when it started, Juan said. I lay next to him, listening. I said nothing. I would go to these clubs, he said. There were men there, dressed like women. Trannies, you know? But some were real men. There were these lockers. You could rent a locker for forty dollars and a little room for sixty. You could walk around nude – people often did. The girls stayed near the bar, which only served Cokes and bottled water. Seven dollars for a Coke, shit like that. I’d always wanted to feel full. I bought a pair of nylons and dropped a golf ball into it. I tied the nylons around it and shoved it up my ass. It took forever but I eventually got the hang of it. I’d do it at home, then go to the club with a golf ball up my ass, walk around. I looked at him, the part of his hair, his lips, the way his chest moved as he breathed. My wife never suspected. Just going out to meet the guys, I told her. She is always so jealous of me talking to women, but she really has no idea. I had a little piece of the nylon, a tail, sticking out of my ass. A guy was blowing me at the club and I told him to yank on the tail when I was about to come. Jesus, it was incredible. So liberating. I thought I was going to come forever. It’s easier now, maybe not so exciting. But that’s how it always is. Juan relaxed into a pillow, his splayed fingers behind his head. I tried imagining a golf ball up my ass but couldn’t. Anything else, I asked. Women’s clothes, he said. Pretty vanilla. You’re not vanilla, I said. I rolled him over on his side. I looked at his ass, the divots on his lower back. No tail tonight, I said.

 

***

Somewhere around fourteen I discovered this wonderful thing. When I wanted to jerk off, which was pretty much all the time, I’d go into my bedroom and close the door, turn on the TV like I was watching it. I’d get completely undressed and lay on my bed. I would concentrate on my breathing, slow it down, really listen to it. It took a lot of practice, but after a few weeks it became easier. I would lift my back off the mattress and slowly drop my legs over my head, my head between my knees. I kept breathing, concentrating on nothing. When my head was sufficiently blank I’d concentrate on my penis – it was only a few inches from my face. I would collapse my back and fold myself further, using the wall for leverage by pushing my feet against it, then dropping back down, working my body until my spine became a warm paperclip. I would mouth the tip of my dick with my lips, stop breathing, fold down further, and collapse into myself. Another few minutes of controlled breathing and my entire dick was in my mouth. I’d suck it for I don’t know how long – time lost all meaning. I’d caress the base of the shaft between thumb and forefinger; bob my head up and down, move with the direction of my spine. It often crossed my mind how ridiculous this would look if my mother were to suddenly walk in, but I didn’t care – I was a slave to the rhythm and pull of my body. Jets crossed the night sky, planets slowly died, people were starving in Mumbai – I didn’t care. I built myself up to the moment of the inevitable, the liquid rush filling my mouth. There is nothing greater than coming in your own mouth, swallowing the ocean that roars between your legs, a sweat-slick ouroboros with your ass in the air.

 

***

Sept / October 2007 – The present became so terrible I began fondly recalling the recent past. I rolled my Free Agent out the door, its nubby tires blackening the carpet. Outside I walked it until I got up some speed, hovered over the seat and rode around the courtyard. It was hot and out of my peripheral I saw four or five people sitting around the kidney-shaped pool in the middle of the courtyard. They were drinking. Someone yelled nice bike! He came rushing toward me on his own bike. Ride to the store with me, he said. Uncle do you mind? A man in his early thirties looked at me warily, then nodded. He was a muscled-up gorilla in a T-shirt. The boy was slight and very young, maybe eighteen. His baseball cap was turned around on his head and his clothes were very baggy, as if he were still kicking remnants of 2002 around. We rode to Circle K and I bought grape blunt wraps. I’m Joey. I’m living with my uncle until I get my own place. His big pronouncements sounded funny coming from such a small body. He was a natural flirt, easy and confident, moving freely among the crowd like a greased ball bearing. We soon found ourselves making regular trips to my younger brother’s house on the west side of town. My brother sold high grade chronic. This shit is stupefying, Joey said one evening. We were in the car headed back to my apartment. Cassadaga was in the CD player, blasting through eight speakers. Joey pounded his fist into the headliner. I love your car, he shouted.

KayKay noticed me riding my bike around the block with Joey after work. Don’t be getting yourself in trouble, she said, admonishing me from the second floor. I looked up at her face, her pulsar crotch. I’m like Alexis Carrington up here! I see everything! She spread her hands wide to indicate her domain. Sometimes Joey would ride his own bike, a Haro Hyper, or if he was being lazy he would ride on my buddy pegs, his fingers tightly gripping my shoulders. Who’s that, he asked. Nunya, I said, laughing as we made our way through a bumpy alley.

It went on for a month, the trips to Circle K, the blunt wraps, the Icees, hanging out in my apartment drinking Pacífico. He sat on the couch zoning to my bootleg DVDs of Sifl & Olly stoned and laughing. When he removed his baseball cap his closely-cropped hair had indents in it from the cap. He rubbed his hand over his hair, waking it up. I got a scar, he said. He lifted his shirt and a zigzag cut across his abdomen like an ice-breaker cutting through forbidden territory.

His uncle knocked on my apartment door on a Saturday evening. It was somewhere around 10pm. I opened the door and he said in a very stern manner Joey needs to come home right now. His words sounded forced, like he wasn’t used to talking to other adults. He’s only seventeen, you know. How old are you? Thirty-six, I said. That was the last time I saw Joey. One day I came home from work and opened the apartment door to escape the world. A small envelope had been pushed under the door. I closed the door and opened the envelope. It was a thank you card, the kind that came in a box of ten. I’ll be eighteen in 6 months, it said. Can’t wait until March! It was his name on paper, one last time.

I googled his name a few years ago and saw that he was serving a life sentence for murder, a drug deal gone horribly wrong. He was twenty-one years old when he was sentenced – LIFE – did I not love him enough?

 

***

November 2007 – I missed Joey. I hadn’t realized how important he had become, despite the minimal amount of time we had spent together, until he was gone. I was imagining March, how terribly far away it seemed. I went on a website called Men4Rent and ordered a hustler whose tag was SK8RBoy. His guest book was recent and complimentary. Lasts long, takes forever to come. Nice lips. Bubble butt. The usual. Two hundred dollars per hour, one hour minimum. We agreed to 8pm. Prostitutes were less complicated – money was exchanged, and there was no useless talk. SK8RBoy reminded me of Joey. How old are you? I asked. Twenty-two, he said. His name was Eric. He took off my clothes. My body was old, flabby. It had once been twenty-two. I felt very far away. Do you mind if I keep your boxers when we’re done, I asked. Sure, he said. I gave him a fifty dollar tip for the trouble.

I took a high school typing class when I was eighteen. I was a senior. I thought if I’m going to be a writer, I’d better learn how to type. Typing without looking, without thinking about the keys. Just let the words flow through my fingers. There was a blond boy in class. Paying any attention to him was unusual for me because I didn’t usually like blonds. On our first day of class he wore a Slayer Reign in Blood shirt. I decided I had to know him, his name. I asked the teacher, a man in his fifties, the blond boy’s name. He considered me for a moment. Michael, he said.

Michael learned how to drive by driving my car, a battered Volkswagen Sirocco with a manual transmission. Find it don’t grind it, I said. Michael was fourteen, a freshman. He had the underdeveloped body of a prepubescent girl. We spent a lot of time together. His father was an engineer, and never seemed to be home. There was a sister, maybe thirteen, and no mother. The sister often had a girlfriend over. One evening as we were watching Night Court on a Trinitron Michael strutted into the living room in his briefs and danced before the girls. He pulled his waistband down and jiggled his dick in front of his sister’s girlfriend. The girls screamed and laughed. Michael was large for his age, his penis surrounded by an untamed bush of dark curls that seemed impossible on his girlish body. I pretended to find Harry Anderson more interesting, but I inventoried Michael with a quick side glance that betrayed nothing.

 

***

I was in love with him, but he didn’t know it, or if he did, he didn’t let on. I let him wear my high school ring. It fit nicely on his pinky finger. His friend Ewell was jealous of our friendship. You guys are always together, he said. We were sitting outside the school cafeteria. Fucking fags. Fuck you man, Michael said. I’m not a fag. We traded Iron Maiden shirts, something I’d never done before. When he gave me his shirt I kept it in my room, inhaling the armpits, the neckline. I wore his Powerslave shirt and he wore my The Number of the Beast shirt to school on the same day. No one noticed. Was our love real? What kind of love was it? Our relationship was odd, like a married but sexless couple who knew everything about each other except the most obvious.

Can you help me run away, he asked. My mother’s being a bitch – she wants to get back together with my dad. I liked it better when it was just my dad. We should change your hair, I said. You could live with me and my sister, I said. Michael shook his head yes. I would ask my sister later, once Michael was stowed in my bedroom. We drove to a supermarket on the west side of town and looked for hair dye. I want to dye my hair black, Michael said. It’ll match my nails. He laughed. I bought the box of dye – Michael never seemed to have any money. He had recently turned fifteen. Can I drive, he asked. He was getting better, smoother. Yes. Be careful, I said.

His mother found us, the hair dye unused, the box unopened. What were you going to do, she asked him. I said nothing. Michael stared at the carpet in my sister’s apartment as if it held all the answers to the world’s mysteries. I can’t believe this, she said. You know we love you, don’t you? I think that’s enough, my sister said, rescuing me from having to open my mouth. I watched Michael get into his mother’s Jeep Cherokee. His sister Jennifer waved from the back seat, her hair pulled back and held together with an elastic hair tie. She was quickly becoming a young woman.

My sister and I got into an argument and I moved out of her apartment. I stole her television while she was at work because she owed me eighty dollars. I moved into a ratty house with a bunch of friends. I had my sister’s off-brand television, a few books, and a bed. My room was a blank. One of my friends, a boy I hardly knew, always walked around the house with his shirt off. He had a habit of riding his Kuwahara up and down the hall. He peddled into my room one evening, dropped his bike and sat on my bed as I watched television. Wanna hit this, he asked. He held a joint in his hand. Sure, I said. After the joint was gone he lay on the bed next to me. We were propped against the wall, a slump block sofa. I thought of my sister sitting in her apartment without her television, my niece and nephew screaming because the box was gone. I feel terrible, my friend said. Me too, I said. I stared at the homemade tattoo on his bicep. It was a girl’s name – Andrea. Who was she, I asked. Just a girl I knew, he said. He was twenty, two years older than me. I miss her like I haven’t missed anyone before, he said. I studied the sagittal hair below his navel. She’s gone and I’m so fucking bored. I was stupid. I’m always doing stupid shit, scaring people away. You’re not gay, are you? No, I said, pretending to watch television. I’ve got another one if you wanna hit it. He dug around in his pocket as I fingered the remote. Sure, I said – anything to keep him in the room with me for a bit longer.

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** This weekend we get a real treat because the d.l. and, much more importantly, author (‘Valencia’, ‘Distemper’) James Nulick has given us DC’s readers, maker(s), commenters and lurkers exclusive access to a new short fiction work. Please spend the time you spend here this weekend poring over it, and please say something or other to James in your comments because, as I know I don’t really need to tell you, sharing work here or anywhere is both a generous and courageous act replete with hopes, nerves, and curiosity. Thanks a lot, folks. And, of course, biggest thanks to you, James! ** David Ehrenstein, Hi, D. Thanks, man, glad you’re with me on her. Her legendary turn in ‘They Shoot Horses, Don’t They’ is what originally made me a fan. And her great performances in ‘The Maids’ and Altman’s ‘Images’ more than cemented that. Oh, that former bottom of the sea thing does give Palm Springs a more positive spin. And I guess their film festival is supposed to be better than one might think. I’ve never been much of a fan of Michael Chabon, but his son seems cool. ** Steevee, Hi. Thanks, I’ll search knowing that. I remember, as perhaps you do, when TLC actually was a channel that attempted to provide what its moniker promised before said moniker got shortened to that acronym. I like your idea of what you want your protagonist to talk about at the end. Yeah, that sounds like a really good, exciting idea. ** B, Hi, Bear. Wow, a Friars Club. That’s funny and intriguing. My parents took me to see that ancient insult-hurling comedian Don Rickles perform at one of those when I was young. I remember wanting to punch him in the face even though I was a pacifist at the time. And I remember the club smelled musty. I’ve never been to the Armory, no. Which is quite strange, as I’ve always wanted to. I saw that multiple Cate Blanchett video work in Melbourne when I was down there. I found it very irritating and phony, and I kind of hated it, but people seem to like it, so who knows. What did you think? Have a most fine weekend, man. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi, Dóra! Good, good, I’m really glad you’re feeling hopeful. I’m picking up my new glasses this afternoon. In the meantime, my poor, dismembered glasses and I are still like a seal balancing a ball on its nose, but with a resultant slight headache on my part that hopefully the seal wouldn’t have. Nice about the lovely meeting with your writer friend, but, oh no, about the possible arriving cold. It does seem like half my friends here have a cold or a flu at the moment. I hope it backed off, or, at the very least, takes it very easy on you. My day … Our producer found a promising seeming young physially disabled guy, so we’re going to meet with him soon. That was good. A bunch of other film stuff. I ordered my new glasses. That was good. Then Zac and I met up with the newly returned Michael ‘Kiddiepunk’ Salerno and Benedetta ‘Oscar B’ DeAlessi and their newborn son Milo. That was very nice. The baby seems very cool, although he was having a big crying jag for most of the time we were there. Zac and I brought along an ice cream buche that we bought for them back when it was buche season, and we bought/brought a completely amazing galette de rois, which, if you don’t know, is this cake that basically all French people eat during the month of January each year. It comes with a paper crown on top and a toy baked inside. Whoever gets the slice with the toy in it gets to be the king and wear the crown. Benedetta was the king. We got the galette from the legendarily and truly greatest bakery in Paris, Du Pain et des Idees. Their breads and cakes and things are like going heaven on earth via your mouth. So the galette was insanely delicious and was worth the 45 minutes we spent waiting in line in the freezing cold to buy it. Anyway, we all had a lovely visit, and then I came come and crashed. Nice day. Do you have intriguing plans for the weekend? And fingers very crossed that you don’t get that cold. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. Yes, she’s so amazing in ‘The Maids’, right? She and Glenda Jackson: what a combo. ** James Nulick, Hi. First, ‘in-person’ gratitude galore for the gift of your wunderbar story! I don’t think SY wrote. Maybe a memoir or something. Thank you for praising my interview-seeking eye. I’m getting replacement glasses this afternoon, and not a moment too soon. I can say with total objectivity that Zac’s and my new film is going to be absolutely fucking amazing. Word. 37 custom designed pinatas! Have a very, very good weekend! ** Bernard, Hi, B. Oh, okay, understood about the secretive project. Oh, please, please do send me that Domenica del Corriere stuff. A post will result! Henry Fuesli … no, no post thus far. His name sounds vaguely familiar. I’ll go see what’s what. I’m sure I’ll see that famous painting and slap my head in ‘duh’-ness. I don’t know that ‘A Christmas Carol’. I think I skipped her TV work when post-making to save myself some hours. I think you might have mentioned the last time I saw you that Doug Lang’s health hasn’t been so great. I’m so sorry to hear that. Yes, a lot of poet losses recently. David Meltzer just the other day. Requesting old days counts as a question I think? Yeah, surely. ‘Have you rerun David E’s Frank O’Hara day, or the Kuchar Bros, or Perec?’ No on the first two, and I will in those cases. I think I did repost at least one of my Perec posts not too long ago, but let me check to make sure. Thank you! Be as Bernardian as possible until Monday at the very earliest. ** Okay. You know what to do if you haven’t yet done so. Enjoy James’s work and make some noise please. See you on Monday.

 

‘Susannah York was a vibrant, energetic personality with a devouring passion for work, strong political opinions and great loyalty to old friends. Her international reputation as an actor depended heavily on the hit films she made in the 1960s, including Tom Jones (1963) and They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969, for which she received an Oscar nomination for best supporting actress. But, even when her movie career waned, she worked ceaselessly in theatre, often appearing in pioneering fringe productions. It was typical of her that, although diagnosed with cancer late in 2010, she refused chemotherapy and fulfilled a contractual obligation to do a tour of Ronald Harwood’s Quartet.

‘In her early years York was often cast as an archetypal English rose. But, although born in Chelsea, south-west London (as Susannah Yolande Fletcher), she was raised in a remote Scottish village and educated at Marr college, Troon. I suspect that the inbuilt Scottish belief that the devil makes work for idle hands stayed with her throughout her career. From school, she progressed to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, in London, where she won the Ronson award for most promising student. With her piercing blue eyes and gamine appearance, she quickly found work. She was Abigail to Sean Connery’s John Proctor in a TV version of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible in 1959. But it was in cinema that she found herself cast as the perfect ingenue.

‘Although she actually made her big-screen debut in a Norman Wisdom film, There Was a Crooked Man, in 1960, it was her performance as Alec Guinness’s daughter in Tunes of Glory later that year that made one sit up and take notice. Behind the good looks, one sensed a certain impish wildness. That was confirmed by The Greengage Summer (1961), in which she played a schoolgirl awakening to the sexual power she had over men. And, while she hinted at darker powers when she played a disturbed psychiatric patient in John Huston’s Freud (1962), she seemed a shoo-in for the role of Sophie Western in Tony Richardson’s much-lauded film of Tom Jones. In fact, York later revealed that she had turned the part down three times and only guiltily accepted it after cooking a disastrously inept lunch for the determined director.

‘After Tom Jones, the film parts poured in. Some, such as a trendy boutique owner in Kaleidoscope (1966) and a cute codebreaker in Sebastian (1968), hardly extended her range. But, at her best, she showed signs of real emotional depth. She was quietly impressive as Margaret More in Fred Zinnemann’s film of A Man for All Seasons (1966). And although Eileen Atkins was the definitive, doll-clutching “Childie” in the original stage production of The Killing of Sister George, York gave the character a neurotic, waif-like edge in Robert Aldrich’s sensationalised, sexually explicit 1968 film. She even managed to look mildly aroused when Coral Browne lasciviously pawed her breasts.

‘She was also outstanding as a flapper who flips out in Sydney Pollack’s They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? which dealt with the world of marathon dance contests populated by Hollywood hopefuls. As the critic David Thomson said: “She was excellent as the English girl trying to break into sordid movies. There is a speculative flightiness about her in that film; especially in the breakdown in the shower scene, she seemed for the first time a human animal touched to the quick.”

‘Although she lost out to Goldie Hawn at the Oscars for that performance, she picked up the best actress award at the Cannes film festival for Robert Altman’s Images (1972). Here she played a possibly schizophrenic author of children’s books wrestling with her sexual identity. She put something of herself into the character, responded excellently to Altman’s sympathetic direction and, although some found the film mystifying, it retains interest, as Thomson wrote, “because of the actress’s resolute seriousness”.

‘By now it was clear that York was a fiercely independent spirit determined to fight against typecasting. She initially turned down an invitation to the Oscars when she said it offended her to be nominated without being asked. And she said, in one interview: “I hated that appellation of film star. I did not want to have an image and be seen as the blue-eyed, golden-haired ingenue. Being a ‘star’ seemed to lock you into an image and I was always frightened of that because I knew I would disappoint people.”

‘However, throughout the 1970s, she continued to appear in movies and on television. In Zee and Co (1972), she enjoyed an erotic relationship with Elizabeth Taylor, and in Superman (1978), she and Marlon Brando were the hero’s Kryptonian parents. Both were blatantly commercial. But others, such as The Maids (1975), where she and Glenda Jackson played Jean Genet’s murderous, implicitly lesbian servants, were more clearly aimed at the arthouse market.

‘Early in the decade she played Jane to George C Scott’s Mr Rochester in a TV movie of Jane Eyre (1970). She was in Conduct Unbecoming (1975), took the title role in the Australian film Eliza Fraser (1976) and played Mrs Fitzherbert in a TV series, Prince Regent (1979). But one sensed a growing frustration at the roles she was being offered and a feeling that her appetite for the adventurous and unusual could be best satisfied by theatre.

‘In 1978, at the instigation of the producer Richard Jackson – with whom she did 10 projects and who became a lifelong friend – she appeared at the New End theatre in London in a production of The Singular Life of Albert Nobbs. Exquisitely directed by Simone Benmussa, this was an adaptation of a George Moore short story about a woman who, for economic reasons, lives as a male hotel waiter and enjoys a relationship with a chambermaid. This gave a whole new dimension to York’s career. Further work with Jackson included Jean Cocteau’s The Human Voice, which toured globally from 1984 to 1992, and Appearances, based on a short story by Henry James and again directed by Benmussa, which York initially played in French to highly appreciative Paris audiences.’ — Michael Billington

 

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Stills

 

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Further

Susannah York @ IMDb
Susannah York: One of the most memorable faces of the British film industry in the Swinging Sixties
SUSANNAH YORK · d’autres étoiles filantes
SUSANNAH YORK, “GOLD”
Ciaran Brown meets actress Susannah York
Notebook: Susannah York, 1939 – 2011
Qui se souvient de Susannah York ?
R.I.P. Susannah York @ The A.V. Club
Susannah York: I force myself to go to the shops
The loss of Susannah York
Remembering Susannah York
My perfect weekend: Susannah York
Portrait of the artist: Susannah York, actor
Podcast: Susannah York, War on Screen

 

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Extras

Interview (2011)

Susannah York gets drunk

Excerpts from Susannah York’s Production ‘The Loves of Shakespeare’s Women’

Actress Susannah York Claims Ghostly Experience At Old House & Bridge

Drag Queen lip-sync of Susannah York reading Shakespeare’s Sonnet 109

 

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SY on her temperament

“I have a very quick, strong temper. I don’t smash up things, I just go for people. And I never know when it’s going to happen to me. I can turn in a moment. The thing about my temper is that it takes me totally by surprise so, of course, it takes everyone else by surprise too. My temper is just so fast and after I’ve done something awful, I feel very bad about it. I’ve struggled so hard to reign in my temper because it actually terrifies me.

“Over the years I’ve hit my lovers and I’ve been whacked back in one or two relationships. Then we’ve both been so shocked we’ve sort of stopped dead. Usually, I’ve gone in with my fists to punch a man’s chest and he’s grabbed my arms and twisted them round to stop me. Very occasionally I hit my children, Sasha and Orlando, but not a lot. They taught me patience, even though I’m not wonderfully patient now, but I wouldn’t have learnt patience at all, if not for them.”

“I beat up John Huston, and he’s a very big guy. He made a hideous joke about Monty and I just saw red and laid into him. Monty was worried about his eyesight and Huston said he’d get him a guide dog for Christmas. I hit Huston with tremendous force and he staggered back against the wall. I’m very, very strong.

“The things that make me very angry are injustice and bullying. If I see someone bullying a woman or child in the street, or kicking a dog, I go completely mad.

“I would say I can look after my temper a little better now. “But I can’t answer for every situation. You never know what could happen. I don’t think I’ve hit anybody for a while and I always know never to hit somebody’s face. I get terribly angry with dawdlers in traffic, people who meander and potter about, and people who cut in. But since I’ve learnt about road rage, I’ve really tried to control myself. I tell myself to be careful and calm down, and I talk myself out of my anger. I think by the time I’d actually got out of the car to hit someone, I’d have realised the stupidity of it and stopped myself.

“I feel I’d like to share my luck and my life. Being in love is the best thing in the world. But I’m not interested in two-nights-a-week of sex and that’s your lot. Oh no! A relationship is lovely if you’re happy, comfortable in it and you really like the person. I can think of nothing better. But there’s nothing worse than having a relationship in which you feel no interest.

“Relationships are very hard work so you really have to think long and hard about whether you want to take that on again. A lot of the guys I meet are taken. One has to face that. But I’ve met two men in the past 18 months who are extremely interesting. I’m not going to elaborate and, as far as I know, neither of them are taken.

“I’m very cautious. I’m not a fly-by-night anymore. I’ve had a bit of that in the past, sowing my wild oats, but now it’s got to be worth it. I guess I’ve got quite high standards and can be selfish and opinionated. Men find it difficult because I’ve got so much energy and hardly sleep at night, only four or five hours. I wake up in the early hours and potter around.”

“I went through such terrible emptiness with my children, I almost did it in advance. A year before they left I’d wake up with this horrible ache in my stomach. It’s one of the things women have to go through. Men too, I suppose.

“I often lack confidence but, more than anything else, having children has helped to boost my confidence. My one beautiful thing is my children. If you’ve opened up to one beautiful thing in your life you then see beauty in other things. So much of our lives are dirty, filthy, ugly and cruel. I was actually terrified of having children and didn’t know whether I was capable of making a commitment. But when they came along I fell in love with them, and in a strange way it does open your heart.

“Now I recognise how lucky I’ve been in my life. I’ve had two or three long periods when I’ve been very unhappy, followed by the grief and emptiness of failed relationships. But more strongly than that I recognise past and present joys, and realise how fortunate I’ve been. And I’ve got a strong sense of hope in the future.”

 

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14 of Susannah York’s 106 roles

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John Huston Freud: The Secret Passion (1962)
‘John Huston originally commissioned a screenplay about Sigmund Freud from Jean-Paul Sartre. It proved overlong and unwieldy and the ultimate film came closer to one of the respectful Warner Bros biopics of great men on which both Huston and the film’s German-born producer, Wolfgang Reinhardt, had worked in the 1930s. Set in Vienna in the 1880s, it’s about what Huston in his prologue portentously describes as “Freud’s descent into a region almost as black as hell itself, man’s unconscious and how he let in light”. In his penultimate screen appearance, a troubled but generally impressive Montgomery Clift plays the young neurologist who challenges the medical establishment, moving from hypnosis towards psychoanalysis and developing his revolutionary theories, most especially about infantile sexuality and the Oedipus complex. Susannah York and David McCallum play two key patients, with the long-blacklisted Larry Parks as Freud’s friend Joseph Breuer. Douglas Slocombe’s black-and-white photography is superbly atmospheric. It’s a serious, honourable film that makes an interesting comparison with David Cronenberg’s recent Freud film, A Dangerous Method.’ — The Guardian

Excerpt

 

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Tony Richardson Tom Jones (1963)
‘The film is notable for its unusual comic style: the opening sequence is performed in the style of a silent film, and characters sometimes break the fourth wall, often by looking directly into the camera and addressing the audience, and going so far as to have the character of Tom Jones suddenly appearing to notice the camera and covering the lens with his hat.’ — collaged

Trailer

Excerpt

 

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Jack Smight Kaleidoscope (1966)
‘Kaleidoscope was Warren Beatty’s seventh movie, and his sixth bad movie. After starting his career with a bang in the terrific Splendor in the Grass, Beatty’s subsequent movies had all proved to be flops at the box office. Kaleidoscope was a typical mod mid-1960’s caper movie, trying to capture some of that James Bond-style magic. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work very well. Beatty plays Barney Lincoln, a wealthy American playboy living in London. Just for kicks, Barney breaks into the Kaleidoscope playing card factory in Geneva and makes small marks on the presses that print the cards so he can identify which cards his opponent has, and which card he’s about to get. Since Kaleidoscope seems to have a monopoly on supplying all of the European casinos with playing cards, his plan seems pretty fool proof, and he wins a ton of money. Along the way he meets flighty English girl Angel McGinnis, played by Susannah York.’ — Mark My Words

Excerpt

 

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David Greene Sebastian (1968)
‘Early in the production of Sebastian, somebody should have called a meeting to figure out what the movie was about. I guess nobody did. What we are stuck with, then, is a movie that moves confidently in three directions, arriving nowhere with a splendid show of style.’ — Roger Ebert

the entire film

 

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Robert Aldrich The Killing Of Sister George (1969)
‘Like Gertrude Stein, tweedy, randy, butch June Buckridge, the flawed heroine of The Killing of Sister George, has a fondness for the bovine. Stein liked to write about “making a cow come out,” which meant giving Alice B. Toklas an orgasm; Buckridge, one of the most inimitable characters in Robert Aldrich’s filmography, expressed her disgust with the world by letting out a long, plaintive moo!. Released in 1968, Aldrich’s film is one of several the director made about the vagaries of stardom—a mini-oeuvre that also includes The Big Knife, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, and The Legend of Lylah Clare. While Baby Jane has long been appropriated by gay men, its most famous line (“But you are, Blanche! You are in that chair!”) repeated in bars and drag shows for decades, Sister George remains a lesbian cult classic that has the distinction of being the first “serious” film to receive an X rating. It was based on Frank Marcus’s London-set 1965 play, which was billed as a “new comedy hit” and opened at New York’s Belasco Theatre in 1966 after a successful West End run. The film, with a screenplay by Lukas Heller, who also wrote Baby Jane, unfolds as a bizarre love triangle. “George” (Beryl Reid, who originated the role onstage), née June Buckridge, is a middle-aged, alcohol-soaked actress on the popular soap opera Applehurst; although she’s nothing like Sister George, the sexless, kindhearted country nurse she plays, her character’s name essentially becomes her own. George lives with her much younger girlfriend, Childie (Susannah York), born Alice McNaught, so nicknamed because of her obsessive attachment to her doll collection. Rupturing the relationship is BBC executive Mrs. Mercy Croft (Coral Browne), who tells George her character is going to die—the “killing” of the title—before diddling Childie and spiriting her away. It was their 119-second love scene (not in the play) that gave the film its X rating.’ — Melissa Anderson, Film Comment

the entire film

 

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Sydney Pollack They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969)
‘The fascinating 1969 film They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? stars Jane Fonda, Susannah York and Gig Young all of whom were Oscar nominated for their work. Gig Young has the Cabaret MC type of role and he won the supporting Actor Oscar. Jane Fonda is warming up for her even greater bitch-on-wheels Oscar winning tour de force in Klute (1971). But of the three performances I was must stunned by Susannah York who has one particularly yowza scene featuring one of the most chilling and sustained loss-of-sanity bits I’ve seen from an actor in aeons. The film is set during the great Depression but, in reflection of the late 60s reality-bites mindset is not some Seabiscuit/Cinderella Man style inspirational-triumph-of-the-human-spirit “we’re all winners” uplift. They Shoot Horses is a spawn of the “life is hell and then you die” school of filmmaking. But you already knew that all period pieces eventually tell us more about the time in which they’re made than the time that they’re about, didn’t you?’ — Film Experience

Excerpt

the entire film

 

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Mark Robson Happy Birthday, Wanda June (1971)
‘Directed by Mark Robson (who has given us such diverse films as Peyton Place, Von Ryan’s Express, Valley of the Dolls, and Earthquake), written by Kurt Vonnegut, and starring Rod Steiger, Susannah York and William Hickey, the film has the production values (and similar looking sets) of an episode of The Odd Couple. Based on Vonnegut’s first stage play, it tells the story of Harold Ryan (Steiger), adventurer, hunter, and war-hero (presumed dead), and his unexpected return home to his wife Penelope (York), and son Paul (Steven Paul). Harold had been trapped in an African jungle for eight years with his friend Looseleaf Harper (Hickey), the man who dropped the bomb on Nagasaki. The two return to an America that they no longer recognize — the peace movement and women’s liberation are just two examples of changes they are unprepared for. Though some of the issues the film addresses are a bit dated, Happy Birthday, Wanda June is probably the best adaptation of a Kurt Vonnegut piece, and the dialog is razor sharp throughout. Genuinely funny, this is a film that deserves to be resurrected from wherever it’s been buried — the performances by Steiger, Hickey and York simply must be seen to be believed.’ — Film Brain

Excerpt

 

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Robert Altman Images (1972)
‘Altman shot Images (1972) in Ireland during the wet autumn months of 1971, and premiered it the following May at Cannes. It won Susannah York the award for best actress (it’s the role she’s most proud of), but left its Cannes audiences mostly confused. It isn’t the sort of film you feel affectionate about. It’s complex and cold, although not nearly as hard to understand as some of the first reviews suggested. Images is a film Altman admirers should make a point of seeing. Its very differences with most of his work help illuminate his style, and he demonstrates superb skill at something he’s supposed to be weak at: telling a well-constructed narrative. It also shows him in inventive collaboration with Miss York, whose children’s book about unicorns is read on the sound track and supplies her character with an alternate fantasy universe in which strange creatures and quaint legends replace the challenges of real life. But the movie, as I’ve suggested, inspires admiration rather than involvement. It’s a technical success but not quite an emotional one.’ — Roger Ebert

Trailer

Excerpts

 

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Christopher Miles The Maids (1975)
‘Jean Genet, one of the most celebrated creative minds of the 20th century, receives an unbridled, expertly cinematic rendering in this long unseen film based on his perverse play. The Maids‘ volatile mixture of class confrontation, Freudian passion and criminal mischief frames an acid-etched portrait of two sisters whose hatred and desire twist their tortured lives together into a relentless downward spiral of guilt, degradation, and freedom at any cost. Glenda Jackson  and Susannah York play Solange and Claire, Paris maids who tend to cruel socialite Madame’s (Vivien Merchant) unending domestic needs. Whenever Madame is away, the sisters obsessively act out a complex role-playing psychodrama of domination and control that feeds their powerful lust for revenge upon the haughty, disdainful mistress they serve. But after falsely denouncing Madame’s lover to the police, Solange and Claire’s shared terror of arrest and the unchecked aggression with which they increasingly infuse their “ceremony” threaten to destroy them even as they perch on the threshold of ecstatic release.’ — Kino Lorber

the entire film

 

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Jerzy Skolimowski The Shout (1978)
‘Though Jerzy Skolimowski’s The Shout (1978) is equally as complex as Performance in terms of narrative linearity (or lack of it), Skolimowski’s film and its complexity derives not from the identity crisis surrounding individual characters within themselves but instead around the crisis of manipulated relationships; the power-play is not between two opposing (but ultimately singular) forces but really the reaction of a third party between a dominant and a submissive pair of characters. More importantly, however, Skolimowski uses the paintings and aesthetics of Francis Bacon to deploy the affect of this tension, more so than Cammell would do as The Shout features actual works by Bacon as well as a deliberate recreation of a specific painting by the artist as well.’ — Celluloid Wicker Man

Excerpt

 

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Richard Donner Superman (1978)
‘For those who know Jerry Siegel’s and Joe Shuster’s comic strip, which has been running since the ‘30s, no introduction to their hero will be needed. Others will be glad of the opening sequence, which is a prologue showing how Superman came to be launched towards Earth from the planet Krypton. Marlon Brando, the only well-informed member of Krypton’s council, ruling from a cast concrete capital in a landscape of ice, predicts the planet’s destruction within 30 days. When this is not heeded by such experienced colleagues on the council as Trevor Howard or Harry Andrews, he and his wife (Susannah York) decide to launch their baby son earthwards in a spacecraft that looks more beautiful than practical – like a starfish in pale pink ice. Krypton duly blowing up is suitably spectacular; and when, after a long journey, the baby arrives, he’s a little boy capable of holding up car with one hand when the wheel-jack fails. The middle-aged childless American couple with the car who pick him up in a field naturally adopt him, and by the time he’s in his late teens he’s kicking footballs over the horizon and outrunning fast trains, such are his powers.’ — Telegraph

Trailer

 

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Mel Damski Yellowbeard (1983)
‘If pitching, as Connie Mack once said, is 75 percent of baseball, what value might be assigned to a script destined to serve an extensive assortment of comic actors? For an answer, consider the pirate movie Yellowbeard as the vehicle for a trans-Atlantic cast starring Graham Chapman, John Cleese and Eric Idle of the Monty Python troupe, Cheech and Chong, Peter Cook, Peter Boyle, Madeline Kahn, Kenneth Mars, Spike Milligan and Marty Feldman, who died last year while in Mexico City making the movie. All these frequently ebullient, irreverent zanies are tossed – together with such customarily more staid types as James Mason, Susannah York, Beryl Reid and Peter Bull -into a tale of the quest for treasure cached in 1687 on a tropical island by the bloodthirsty Yellowbeard (Graham Chapman), before his incarceration in London.’ — NYT

the entire film

 

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Richard Franklin The Visitors (2003)
‘Venerable British actress Susannah York and up-and-coming star Radha Mitchell head up the cast of this Australian psychological thriller. Both actresses play the character of Carolyn at different stages of her life; bookended with scenes of the elder Carolyn (York) recalling her attempt to sail around the world, the bulk of the film involves the terror-stricken voyage itself. Only in her twenties, the young Carolyn (Mitchell) is filled with hope and fear for her daring solo journey, but once at sea, isolation and solitude begin to take their toll. Soon, Carolyn is encountering people and situations from her past, sometimes with violent, terrifying consequences. When she begins to notice physical evidence of her nightmarish visitors, Carolyn really begins to lose it.’ — collaged

Trailer (Spanish)

 

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Jan Dunn The Calling (2009)
‘Half Doubt, half Hollyoaks, Jan Dunn’s latest attempt to put Thanet on the cinematic map unfolds at the world’s busiest, bitchiest convent: St Bertha’s of Ramsgate. Barely a scene goes by without someone self-flagellating, getting pregnant, topping themselves or having a whopping skeleton pop out of the cupboard. But it’s also quite glam, full of female leads of a certain age: Rita Tushingham is sister booze, Susannah York a sinister Prioress, Pauline McLynn a sulky nun, Susannah Harker a slutty nun, and Amanda Donohoe a rookie nun’s mum. Second to none, though, is bonafide Ramsgate resident Brenda Blethyn as Sister Ignatius, she of the wry eyebrows and jaunty wimple, the progressive leanings and splendidly indignant reaction when someone explains they’re vegetarian: “Sister Kevin has already started the chicken pate, and as for the chicken chiplets …” Only she, really, manages to ride the rollercoaster jumps in plot and tone that sadly mean The Calling may fail to speak to many.’ — The Guardian

Trailer

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Palm Springs, weird. Living in Palm Springs always seems like the lifestyle equivalent of getting a tan in a tanning salon to me, no doubt unfairly. Oh, right, her daughter Gaby. Thanks for the update, D. ** Dynomoose, Whoa, hey, pal! And ha ha ha, very nice. You great? I sure hope so! Love, me. ** Steevee, Hi. Huh. I’m surprised that episode isn’t on youtube or somewhere. I scoured. The word Hitler is becoming like one of those once-shocking swear words whose overuse has turned whatever it’s applied to into hostile mush. I haven’t seen ‘Staying Vertical’ yet, no. Curious about it. Add me to your coterie that didn’t like ‘Stranger by the Lake’. ** Montse, Hi, Montse! Yeah, I was really surprised not to know it given my constant searching of master/slave sites where you’d think it would be a popular fetish. It embarrasses me a little to remember when I knew Paris patisseries so superficially that I would take you to Fauchon. Not that their stuff sucks or anything. But it’s sort of like if you’d asked to check out French couture and I’d taken you to Zara or something. Anyway, in my initial search, I didn’t find a single patisserie that uses its imagination on madeleines. They seem to be sacred cows. But now I’m more determined than ever to find madeleine auteurs. Oh, we have to shoot at least most of the movie in this region of France called Bas Normandie wherein Caen is the largest city because we received a big grant from the film commission there, and, in return for the money, we have to shoot there and employ people there as much as possible. I love working/writing by myself a lot, but nowadays I find I love working with others (Zac, Gisele, et. al.) just as much. But I am really lucky in those cases to have collaborators whom I’m completely simpatico with, which I’m sure colors that feeling. Japan! You guys must go there sometime. Really, really! It’s a dream. Did you have fun or interesting non-fun today? xxx ** B, Hi, Bear. Yeah, the context of in-flight entertainment can make totally standard, monetarily overfed brain-rot films strangely pleasurable. And yet it can’t, for me at least, rescue movies that are really horrible. So, like, the ‘Thor’ or ‘Hunger Games’ or etc. movies can be decent companions, but when a movie is absolutely dreadful inside and out like, say, ‘Batman vs Superman’ or that last X-Men movie, being trapped in a plane seat doesn’t disguise that. What is the bar gig? Great that another salon is soon upcoming. And have a wonderful time in Boston. I’ve only been to Boston a couple of times, and both times for gigs where I traveled very quickly in and out of the city, so I don’t know it at all. I can barely even remember what it looks like, weirdly. ** Dóra Grőber, Hi! Sure, of course, about the emotional whirlwind. You just have to see how it settles. Hearts are pretty welcoming things, so hopefully you won’t feel like the love you feel for the new dog is a cancelation of your lost/not lost love. Cool you liked ‘Witch Hunt’. Juliet’s a wonderful writer. My yesterday involved a lot of not so interesting (emailing, messaging, etc.) but useful film prep work. Today has started shittily because my reading glasses, which were already half-broken, completely broke this morning. I’m having to tilt my head back and hold it at an uncomfortable angle just to be able to do this p.s. So I have to go get new ones immediately, which isn’t a big deal, but it vexes me. And today? Your today? ** Bernard, Norman Vincent Peale! I remember that guy. He was a real adult touchstone when I wasn’t an adult. Interesting. Thanks, B. Hm, I wonder if France has grifter gurus. I would guess not unless the Le Pen brood counts, which I guess they don’t, but I’m going to ask Zac and Gisele. I’ve had some pretty good veggie burgers here. The place that had my favorite shut down about a year ago. My new favorite is at Le Potager du Marais, a fantastic in general vegan restaurant very close to the Pompidou on rue Rambuteau. Why do you ask? I think I either did a post ages back on La Specola or maybe had it in a general post. I’ll check. Re: Domenica del Corriere, nope. I’ll look into that immediately. I did quite an excellent Vincent Price Day, and I’ll get that restored and reposted asap. Good idea. I love questions. Lists and questionnaires are two of my fetishes, so keep ’em coming. ** Jeff J, Hi, Jeff. Yeah, it was lurker for me too. Right? About that gif? Holy shit. I strangely have never watched ‘Glen and Randa’. I have seen ‘The Hired Hand’. It is pretty interesting and worth watching. I think maybe it’s a bit over-lauded, but it’s a thing to see at least. The A-Frames, yes, wow. I haven’t thought about them in a million years. Huh, I’m going to go revisit them today. Thanks for the tip/reminder! ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi. That ’50 Foot Woman’ movie gets a lot of traction in the Macrophilia message boards I found, no surprise. As does some mid-late, giant woman-featuring music video by the Rolling Stones. Cool, I’ll go check out the Crasher Kids. Thanks, man. Glad you got some high quality time with your YnY comrades. ** Derek McCormack, Derek! Yay! Well, you should have a firework named after you too. I wonder if there are custom fireworks designers the way there are custom piñata designers. I know there are custom piñata designers because in Zac’s and my new film one of the characters collects pinatas, and he has 37 of them on display in his garage, and we found a piñata designer in Paris who’s going to make 37 pinatas for us in any design we choose. Any ideas? ** Marilyn Roxie, Hi, Marilyn! Thanks, pal. Oh, yes, I see what you mean about your collage. It’s awesome! You take care too. ** Bill, Hi. No, Macrophilia is just as ‘big’, ha ha, among heterosexual guys. I just concentrated on the gay angle to give the post coherence or something. Slogging again already? Sorry, man. Fucking capitalism! Yeah, I’ve found that if you’re okay after the third night, you’re relatively safe. ** H, Hi. I got taught and pulled you guys into my education. Exciting about the Xmas experimental film discoveries. Especially now that’s it not Xmas anymore for some reason. ** Okay. I was thinking about the odd, very interestng actress Susannah York the other day, and … presto. See you tomorrow.