Stardom, Part One

MacNeill from MacNeill & Lehrer. . . .

Rick dropped this completely deadpan and apropos of nothing about twenty years ago, as we marched up Seventy-ninth Street from the park toward Columbus, staring into the middle distance as he uttered the words, without even slightly turning his head or altering his pace or glance one centimeter. To a casual observer we might have seemed perfectly in step and involved in serious talk up until that subtle, almost imperceptible digression, but as always he was on the lookout. MacNeill seemed quite tall to me as he ambled toward us from up the block and looked a lot like MacNeill, older of course as they always appear without their make-up and having just alighted from a typical “classic” New York pre-war--  was this where he lived? The possibility of unearthing such a fascinating detail would have made it even more intimate for Rick, but my thing was always buildings and various monuments so I was much more intrigued by the architecture of that old west side palazzo than by the legendary figure of TV news who emerged from it.

It was maddening, frustrating. Made me wanna strangle him at times. Stop it, pleeeze stop this- I really do not care about MacNeill!  We were just in the middle of a conversation! He laughed off my words. I really and honestly was not into stargazing and found the practice intensely annoying, but my lack of interest never deterred Rick. He had this uncanny knack for spotting minor and major celebrities on the street, anywhere, anytime of day or night. Character actors from old Woody Allen films, those with unforgettable, distinctive weird faces made for comedy; stars of old sitcoms like the guy who played Fonzi on “Happy Days”- what was his name? Bygone news anchors whose names we never knew to begin with as they rattled on each evening with strange bursts of enthusiasm about a building collapse or the next snow storm. And now, in the flesh, a familiar, no nonsense commentator from the revered PBS itself, the network that was always so intent on projecting Integrity and trying hard to exude “balanced” credibility in their choice and handling of stories. Having once worked for a newspaper I knew of course this pretense of fairness was just a sham and that even the most dignified seeming of the media outlets were slanted in one way or another- it was inevitable. But it wasn’t about the quality of reporting for Rick, or how funny the movie or TV show really was, or how effective the politician or dastardly the gangster, it was about stardom, simple and sweet, the glow and after glow, the ambient light associated with nearness to the heavens- and in a further interesting little blip of random irony, I also found it quite amusing that even his very name had a whiff of stardust, as it just happened to allude to the dashing main character of Casablanca. We never ran across Bogey of course, his blaze having  left the cosmos long before we happened on the astronomical street scene, though we did make regular passes around the Dakota where the star had resided when still a living luminary. You never knew who would pop out of that famous courtyard, with 19^th century electrified gas lamps framing the arched entrance of its porte cochere rather dramatically on either side. Carriages once trotted through here for godsake! The edifice was complicated and amazing, evocative of another time in its eclectic design and period detail, a true classic if a bit fussy. But it was only the possibility of star studded foot traffic that mesmerized Rick.  

Rick was so infatuated with the idea of celebrity that he didn’t even have to get very close up and personal with it; just catching sight of a place where one of the “greats” had lived, or hung out, or walked a dog, often was enough to provoke a spirited mini-lecture on celebrity trivia. Early on naturally he took me to the “White Horse,” mistakenly believing I’d be blown over by first sight of Dylan Thomas’ name scratched drunkenly on the bathroom door of the famed tavern. What he didn’t count on was that every English major east of the Mississippi and a fair number west, south and north had already made the well trod pilgrimage in order to guarantee their status as bona fide member of the avant-garde in good standing. And so he  stepped up his efforts and eventually set his sights further uptown. One sunny afternoon in late spring, a short time after the “White Horse” debacle, as we strolled placidly by the Ansonia on Broadway he let it be known that here was where Evelyn Nesbitt hunkered down after her notorious affair with Stanford White. Now the Ansonia was not really my cup of tea design-wise, with its beaux-art façade and myriad turrets flaunting far too many curlicues like a giant tray of ornate pastries; in short, it was a tad too busy for my liking. And as it turned out, this juicy “fact” of star habitation probably was not even true. Although everyone from Theodore Dreiser to Babe Ruth supposedly had hung their hats at the famed residential hotel with a raft of well-known opera singers and musicians tucked ostentatiously in between, there is no real evidence of Nesbit ever having actually lived there. I know this because Rick’s mention of White’s name got me started on my own self-guided tour of the colorful architect’s famous city landmarks, and from that moment on it was only a hop, skip and a jump to my own untoward descent into the maelstrom . . . .

Oh Downton, My Downton

We’ll gather in the drawing room at eight o’clock.

         -Robert Lord Grantham of Downton Abbey, to Carson, the butler

Gather in the drawing room???

Unlike the fantastical food fests and decorum orgies that take place on PBS peek-a-boos into lavish English country houses, no one seems to gather anymore. It’s sad. The truth is there’s also a dearth of drawing rooms in the twenty-first century.

Not so in PBS world! Let the recession continue to limp along unsteadily toward an unsure future, let worlds continue to collide, let the deteriorating infrastructure of our city continue to jolt my car out of alignment on any given day and play havoc with the motor mount at regular, dispiriting intervals- it’s just one big Jewish wedding at Downton, especially when there are weekend guests! No one arrives simply for an evening’s dinner and some chat at these massive, merry conglomerations of aristocratic glitterati- it’s a several days long though appropriately restrained bacchanal of gorgeous attire, sparkly tiaras and mysterious, scrumptious looking desserts. The suites where the weekend guests are housed and duly pampered even have exotic names, like “the Egypt room” among others. Forget about chopped liver and melon balls. All that’s missing is a steady stream of punch joyfully spouting from a gilt-edged fountain in the shape of a lion or unicorn, but why even give a thought to such trivialities of catering when your cellar is replete with the most exquisite of rarified wine selections from the year one of winemaking. . . .

I want to anticipate gathering and be dressed to the nines and have a “lady’s maid” arrange my coiffure and select a marvelous piece (or two or three) from the priceless mulch of gemstones overflowing my jewelry box and then gather in the drawing room with other similarly attired and festooned spirits. But Wait! What exactly is a drawing room? I sort of get the general idea, but not entirely. . . I’ve gathered it’s not for drawing, as in sketching or doodling, but rather for drawing people in, as in the act of gathering around gaming tables for civilized amusements like whist and bridge amid the delicate tinkle of cordial glasses and ever so thin crystal stems of champagne while bubbly undertones of laughter and snippets of clever, intriguing small talk decide the fates of marriages and nations.

Oh, the battle of waterloo was indeed won on the playing fields of Eton!!!  And here I am, stuck in an outer borough, waiting for next Sunday night.

“Downton” Season Four, Episode One and the Five Stages of Grief

(Plot Spoiler! But Not Fatal))

I have finally dealt with all the necessary stages of grief (or DABDA) relevant to Matthew’s death and now feel I may be getting ready to move on.

Believe me, it has not been easy.

Mercifully I did not have to go through this awfulness alone, as Lady Mary helped complete the difficult cycle of loss and recovery last Sunday night. However I must admit the time lapse between Mr. Crawley’s demise and my emotional letting go often was spent alone, bereft, with not one of the characters of “Downton Abbey” anywhere in sight to help me through this tortuous process. And of course not being part of the media “in crowd” I did not happen to have early access to the fourth season prior to its American debut broadcast and thus had to wait months and months for the first episode, like any other Masterpiece plebe who was not a member of royalty. Oh, how the time did crawl (no pun on Mathew’s family).

Because of the depth of my suffering during the interminable interim, I felt compelled to write down my thoughts as a kind of very personal internet journal to try and help deal with the intensity of feelings I experienced, put them behind me as it were. It all started of course with the vicious, savage, totally uncalled for way in which the series dispensed with Matthew- did that event really have to be so messy? So completely untimely? So very bizarre in the way they left him on the side of the road, all crumpled up like that, his natty clothes ruined, his head in tatters? All because he decided to leave the show? Disgusting! Even O’Brien didn’t get this kind of rough treatment as we were to learn. Ugh, the sheer shock of the accident instantly catapulted me into a miasma of fierce denial, as you may well understand. When I finally regained my senses and a modicum of composure, I realized there was no way Lazarus was ever gonna be raised from that bucolic English countryside, particularly at a time when there were no rules of the road and not many people were trained in the administration of CPR, that is, if anyone even happened to pass by that patch of greenery in the nick of time. Needless to say I was majorly pissed off. Why him? Why now? What did I do to deserve this? And that’s when the bargaining began in earnest. Perhaps Matthew really wasn’t dead. Maybe they could bring him back with some miracle of neuro-scientific research- in its infancy though that medical field be at that time- or perhaps through cryogenics as Walt Disney had so hoped for, or some other early nineteenth century crackpot idea of pseudo-science. Didn’t he once learn to walk again, rather speedily in fact, after being paralyzed from the waist down as a result of a mysterious war injury? With time naturally I came to acknowledge that dead was different from romantically paralyzed-  with two women still vying for you to boot. Right after that dark realization the depression set in, and I was spiritually immobile for months. I tried not to think about it but it was hopeless- the slightest thing could set me off: a blurb on the PBS website about the series; a glimpse at one of the DVD covers as I browsed for a movie at Barnes and Noble. I often found myself fighting back the tears.

Then last Sunday night, just being witness to the extraordinary strength and fortitude with which Lady Mary finally conquered her semi-somnabulent state of favoring dark, subtly glittery dresses and staring bleakly into mirrors- as she slowly woke up with a little prodding from the spritely ex-chauffer and began to worry about the “crops” and “livestock” as granny put it, and other weird, vaguely agricultural problems that beset holders of vast country estates- I knew I had reached a state of welcome acceptance! It was a long time coming but it was over now and I would be able to get on with my life, and with the series. It’s true, I had to imbibe the entire new, almost two hour episode on my rather small bedroom TV as the emotional strain of it all forced me to lie down, lest I fall into a faint, or start dropping things like Mrs. Patmore, or begin lending funds I’d surely never see again to unemployed butlers, or rehabilitating song and dance men stuck in workhouses, or risk getting arrested at rowdy dances, or hiring totally unsuitable, evil lady’s maids or sadistic nannies, or, or, or. . . . heaven knows what!

I shudder to think what could happen if one does not exercise complete caution amid such lush, spectacular settings- each tableau so exquisitely framed- and I can hardly wait to find out.

January, 2014

My Jack Finney Moment- A New Year's Resolution

What exactly is it about the imminent arrival of a new year that inspires edginess all around? Resolutions designed to keep the unknown at bay- a sort of bargain with the vagaries of the future? The uncertainty of it all was most evident at the turn of the millennium, with its Y2K predictions of planes falling from the sky and power grids shutting off at the very moment of the Great Twenty-first Century Computer Glitch; and so here are some thoughts on that time that still resonates.

1999 

Central Park on the afternoon of the eve of the last day of the second millennium was where I wanted to be. I had chosen this as the last memorable place wherein to plant my twentieth century footsteps.

I entered the park at 81^st and Central Park West and headed east. The afternoon of December 31^st seemed more autumn than winter with fewer leaves and a light scrim of a fog. Sunlight fell on lawns in gold sepia shades reminiscent of the nineteenth century as seen in photographs. I stepped purposefully, taking in the landscape and noticing that the park seemed near empty. This scene would have been natural after dawn but appeared anachronistic at two in the afternoon. In some strange way the lack of crowds did not seem unusual but felt almost familiar. I soon realized I was in momentary flight to the 1950’s where there were fewer people, a significant lack of information and more patches of treetops and sky. Jack Finney’s classic about Central Park as eternal vehicle for time travel popped up. Perhaps his insane, fantastical theory really worked! Think hard enough in the right setting and there you were somewhere in the imagined past, interacting with it, drinking it in with your senses and not just your reading mind. . . . I was far enough into the park so that traffic and cars were no longer visible or audible and it could easily have been half a century back. I slowed my walk, reluctant to leave the scene. Romeo and Juliet embraced in front of the Delacorte and kept company with the ghosts of riveting Shakespearean heroes and a classical pas de deux, acted and danced by the best of them at the free performances of Papp’s cozy outdoor stage, under stars, moon and occasionally rain. The castle looked peaceful across its newly refurbished lake, serene, timeless, perfectly placed. These were the pictures of the twentieth century I wanted to keep. 

I exited the park at the museum, climbed the stairs and spent a few minutes gazing at the angel tree. Back home, safe in my apartment with the long, expectant night of an unknown millennium ahead, I made my first resolution. Not usually given to flights of self-improvement fancy or making promises I may not keep, I vowed only to do as much laundry as possible before midnight in case of a Y2K blowout. This was my resolve.  If it was back to the stone ages then it would be with snowy white t-shirts. When I arrived at the basement, washing in tow, I discovered that other people had come to the same idea; the laundry room was jumping- it was the happening place. There was a convivial feeling, not the competitive machine-grabbing air that sometimes prevails during peak hours. I talked with neighbors I had only passed in the halls when everyone was too occupied, or stressed, or hurried to make conversation. There was a feeling of community as the machines pounded and lurched away, cleansing us for the next two thousand years.

Later that night Dick Clark, guru of an earlier, simpler, 1950’s media encounter viewed through smaller, fuzzier screens helped lead us through another rite of passage with his retro, weirdly unchanging Dorian Gray-ish demeanor. The New Year came and went and flashed its pictures-  spectacular global fireworks, mountains of confetti in Times Square, helicopters circling above, an entire police force below, people giddily sporting silly, oversized “2000” eyeglass frames and nothing much else out of the ordinary. Later that night a few car alarms went off, as they usually do on New Year’s Eve, and as I wrote about it I had to stop myself from unconsciously trying to replicate the studied folksiness of the narrator from Our Town. When it became evident the world was still way too much with us, it was comforting to realize that during this awe-inspiring transition to the next thousand calendar years-or perhaps the next twelve months- whatever future sci-fi transformations or earthbound boom and bust experiences lie ahead, at least for a week or so I would not have to worry about doing the wash.

I know, I know-  it was not all that earth shaking. . . .