Saturday, October 19, 2013

Who's that smile?




Just a few seconds in time. . . A candid shot of Harold Lloyd strolling along the beach, exuding health and confidence and enjoying the day.

These times, they will never come again.



Friday, October 18, 2013

Harold Lloyd: Vrruckter Millwoch!




As I trudge through the (first round, only) edit of my novel, The Glass Character, which involves the very dishy but dead silent comedian Harold Lloyd, and as I (sometimes) wonder why I wrote the thing in the first place, it being so problematic in the editing process, I must refresh my mania for said Harold Lloyd by poking into some very strange promotional material indeed.

I think this one is for his last movie, a flop called The Sin of Harold Diddlebock, which involved a yellow plaid suit and a lion. The lion has been cut off the bottom for reasons unknown, which is too bad because I think this might have made a handsome poster if it had been left whole.  It looks to be in German, using the alternate title Mad Wednesday. Either way, the movie wasn't very good, though  that title (in German, at least)  is something memorable.



You might find this title on an Ikea poster. Things look a little out of proportion here: the cops are waving their sticks at him, which they never did in Safety Last!. So I honestly don't know what this is about. He looks like he's sitting on a very large rectangular cube of some sort. No clock in sight. Or could it be Mad Wednesday, where he does some aerial stunts, unfortunately all done with illusion?




This one I really like. It could be for Haunted Spooks, an early one I like, in which I think his hair stands on end. He looks very European in this, very French. Mildred Davis looks doll-like beside him, and she has red hair, which I don't think she did. But all in all, this is a good-looking, stylish poster with great use of colour.




This one is TOO abstract for my tastes. Most of the European posters are.  I have no idea what language this is or what it means, though it must be Scandinavian. I don't know if he's swinging from a chain in this one, or falling. His legs look disturbingly fat, as if he is suffering from edema. His shoes look like lady shoes, let's face it, and what is that conelike red thing stuck to his feet?




This one is interesting in that it's in more than one language. Schaterlachen is definitely German, but Fous-Rires looks French to me, meaning crazy laughter. One of the photos in the glasses lens is from The Freshman, the other from Girl Shy. I don't know why this is after six years of studying Lloyd, but I know a lot about him, though I am not allowed to let it show, or I am cut down to size as if it's an embarrassment. Must be karma. 




This one is called The Fox Hunt.I don't remember a Lloyd film with that name, but there is one - I think it's called Among Those Present - in which he must pass himself off as a gentleman capable of riding the meanest horse in the stable so he can impress his girl on a fox hunt. I think he gets her in the end.




Filmtosset! So what's a filmtosset? Nobody knows. Is that a rocket going off, or what? No, it's a spotlight of some sort. He looks to be landing on his ass with a briefcase, so who knows what it's about. Oh! Maybe it's Movie Crazy, one of his early talkies. In that case, I'll pass.




I've saved the best till last. Here is a lovely poster, an almost perfect match for a photo publicity shot (below), for the movie I Do (translated as Un Heureux Mari: a happy or lucky husband). It isn't just the charming drawing of the two of them in the kitchen, he tending to a broken plate, nor the saturated colors, but the inclusion of a nickname Lloyd wore for a very long time in Europe: Lui. Meaning: him. You know who I mean, that guy, the regular fellow. The regular fellow who captured the world.







Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Women laughing alone with salad


Women Laughing Alone With Salad


By Edith Zimmerman | January 3, 2011




From The Hairpin, January 3, 2011

The pills I took were a bad idea





What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

T. S. Eliot




The wishbone

Today I had the thought,
Do not, do not, on pain of freaking death, look backward,
Look backward over your shoulder at anything that you
Have done or that has transpired,
Because you will have one of two reactions:
You will hate what you have done, who you were, all the 
mistakes
You have made, all the chances not taken,
Or else you will so love the times that were sweet 
blossomings,
Heady gardens of the mind,
That you will ache for those times and die inside,
Knowing they will never return.



Today I had that knowledge, but did I absorb it?

I never knew when things were crowning anyway,
When moments were sublime,
For they slid out from under me even as I experienced them.
Far from trusting that these moments would come again,
Which they would not,
I tried to seize them, to keep them close, but they only 
changed form
In some incredible miracle from solid to liquid
A collapsing snow castle.



My life has been a road steadily pulled out from under me
By some unseen hands
And I’ve had to run to keep up with it
To keep from falling on my ass
Or hitting the back of my head.
Run, run, fucking run.



My life has been some sort of awful conundrum,
An impenetrable puzzle that the newspaper
Forgot to publish the answer to,
With too many gifts of the wrong sort, things I could
Never share because I was never given the chance:
No, not never, for I tasted of the thing I wanted most,
Or thought I wanted most,
Like a tongue on powdered sugar.



Births slingshot into nine-year birthday parties,
And I see the infant I watched slide into the doctor’s hands
Blowing out her nine candles,
Looking about fourteen years old,
Her hair up, her eyes knowing,
Her smile splitting my heart. She looks nothing
Like me or my side of the family,
And the Spanish blood that lurks several
Generations back is clear in her almond-eyed,
Almost Castilian beauty.
It can’t get any better, God won’t let it,
In fact God is the reason for all this:
I want to say, take me
NOW so I don’t have to see any more,
So that I will not be dragged to the awful breaking point,
The point of disaster that I know is coming
If I don’t get out of here soon.



This puppet dance amuses me,
Though the first time I saw it in that odd old movie
It tore me to pieces.
I forgot to mention in the labels
That the music is by Bartok
Who knew a thing or two about horror.
I could say something now about puppets and strings,
But I know it would be awful.



I am in a labyrinth, somewhere in the middle so that
It is possible to move in any direction
And be equally lost. I hit
Dead end after dead end, the board
Tilted nastily so that the little silver ball
Keeps on dropping through the holes.




I don’t want to read any more biographies,
Don’t want to read about
How lavishly gifted people
Threw everything away with both hands
Continually
Because I don’t know what these things are
Supposed to do for us anyway,
Inspire us,
Inspire revulsion or pity
Or embarrassment or discouragement or what?



I am told to try and try. But it turns out
That this is what they tell people anyway, it’s kind of
Standard,
A form letter of advice,
And I am the only one who pays attention to it.
It has become clear to me
Just today,  just this minute
That my efforts are an embarrassment to everyone
Because they didn’t really mean I SHOULD try –
It is the best way to get rid of me quickly
With no sticky feelings involved
Or perhaps it makes them feel better,
Which is what apology is really all about,
It has nothing to do with the wounded party,
Who smugly assumes the person is truly contrite.



I have a certain  fascination for divination and
Signs,
Splintery snaps of the wishbone
Dried on top of the fridge for months
Yielding only the dessicated remains of a turkey or duck
Knowing none of this ever comes true,
That there is in fact no special protection,
No amulet that holds off disaster,
And the realization is strong, and inspires all sorts of
Awful visions:
Dancing along the edge of the Skytrain platform
Feeling a little woozy
As if the couple of pills I just took
Might after all have been a bad idea.