This is from way-hey-hey long ago, 1996 I think, my newspaper column period, in which I turned out literally thousands of the things. How well I remember the stifling atmosphere, the restive crowd, the bottled water and mascara'd drag queens as we waited for just a glimpse of this Living Legend. I'm kind of lousy at scanning these old things and had to chop it up into pieces, so if you can't read it, tough potatoes.
Too bad the reporter wasn't quick enuf to retort with something like, "Well, dear, I'd love to get to know what to call you then." That really was pretty tacky of Ol' Violet Eyes, unless the kid was being really obnoxious. Great column, BTW. Maybe Hollywood has a place for her a la The Tomb in Moscow for her miracle face to greet tourists unto the next millennium.
ReplyDeleteThis is the THIRD TIME I have tried to post this, and if it disappears this time then fuck it all to hell. Last night I watched Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, perhaps for the third time, and just got sucked right down into the core of it. I could not escape, and after a while I was in a sort of bondage and didn't want to, I had to watch the animal thrash and die. The way they were willing to eviscerate themselves (Burton's drunken failure as a stage actor, Taylor's reputation as a harridan and a slut) made my hair stand on end. The whole drama is macabre, of course, a ghastly folie a deux, but Taylor really stands out as a molten force of nature, a female volcano erupting and spewing all the bile of those years of being chained to a man she loathes and can't leave. But that's nothing compared to her own self-hate. It's monumental, as is everything else about her (her overblown, distorted body, like a tomato about to explode). But what stands out for me is what I call the "snap" scene: the speech in which Martha accents the dismal account of their demolished relationship with the word "snap!", which takes on ever more desperation and anguish until it's a sort of animal cry. And suddenly at that moment, completely unexpectedly, I began to sob, and sob, and sob, as I haven't for a very long time. Her performance reached down inside me and pulled. It pulled up the visceral anguish of every failure and disappointment and moment of self-hate I have ever known, and lo, it was a spectacle of Biblical proportions (just like hers, except that in her total commitment to her pain, she somehow made it glorious). As only the greatest actors dare, she ran the ultimate risk, slamming the mirror into our faces and saying, "Hey, take a look. Can't you see it? You're just like me."
ReplyDelete