This is the first time I got a good look at a coot's feet, which are big spongy things that are nothing like the feet of ducks or herons or anything else. They're just weird! But I like them, and I like the way they disappear into the water, the conviction with which they do it, the - commitment. The head goes down first, then - thwip!
I haven't posted too many of my hundreds of nature videos - some of which I think are quite good - just because I seem to get side-tracked. This is all that is left of a "series" which just never happened. The videos are still on YouTube, they haven't gone anywhere, at least until they close my account for piracy (10-second clips of movies that have been in the public domain for 50 years). So my series will no doubt happen eventually. Or not.
It's pretty incredible to FINALLY see this movie posted when I have been snuffling around for it for something like eight years. (This is, by the way, the second version I found. The first one, taken from a Russian web site, had an annoying buzzing sound in the background all through the movie.) All I could ever find were publicity stills - LOTS of them, more than for any other movie Harold ever did.
I haven't even looked at this yet, as I posted it very late at night. It gave me a surreal feeling. Harold himself didn't like this film, and I think it was made in 1938, his doldrums period when he nevertheless was not quite ready to give up. His "glass character" (his own name for his film alter ego) didn't wear well with time, not because he didn't look good - he looked good for pretty much his whole life - but because it was a little uncomfortable to see a 40-year-old man acting like he was 25. With one exception, the ferocious kiss in Why Worry?, his alter ego was almost virginal, and a virginal 40-year-old (who in several cases still lives with his parents) is just kinda creepy.
How does it feel to have this lost treasure at my fingertips? I'm not sure yet, because I haven't watched it. And of course it's not like the wild curiosity of a few years ago. But something has changed. I cannot tell you why, but after pushing the whole subject away from me for over a year, I am "into" Harold again.
I found a stash of copies of my novel yesterday and was a bit relieved - I could only find one, and found it hard to believe that I hadn't kept more than that. I sent out SO many copies to people whom I hoped would be interested, mainly in the film industry, and Kevin Brownlow was the only one who responded, albeit with a very brief enthusiasm which has since died. Rich Correll's initial keen interest (he actually phoned me, gave me contact information and seemed genuinely interested in doing something with it) and subsequent cold and baffling dismissal was nothing short of devastating. I am not sure what happened, but I suspect someone was running interference, and I think I know who it was. When the movie gets made and all my ideas are in it, it's going to be pretty heartbreaking. But I digress. I have no idea why more photos, posters, lobby cards, and other forms of publicity exist for Professor Beware than for (even) Safety Last or The Freshman, when it disappeared from view for so many decades. But here it is. Sampling through it, so far I notice Harold's shrill, strident voice yelling and screaming a lot, and maybe this is one reason it didn't go over well. I have no idea why he didn't just use his regular, jovial Midwestern voice with its delightful tinges of Nebraska. Comics often have a persona with an obnoxious voice - Jerry Lewis comes to mind - but this one is pretty hard to take.
If you're interested in this movie, please watch it right away! It could easily be taken down for copyright reasons. It was shown on AMC just once, some time in the '90s, and there's a rumor it was on YouTube very briefly in 2015, but I don't know about that. I think I would have noticed it. But the powers that be at YouTube will likely re-inter this gem just to make sure we are deprived of all the best things on the internet.
BTW, aren't these gorgeous? I'm afraid I don't own them. It's just an internet image. But in this case, as with so many things, the buildup was much better than the actual event.
"It is unquestionable that. . . the remarks made by Thomas D. Horton are of the shock variety, but then the truth has always been so." - Bethlehem Bulletin
"There is not the slightest likelihood of any male ever reviewing this book before a women's club. The insurance premium would be prohibitive. Turn to any chapter, any paragraph and read it aloud in the presence of a female, and you'll have fury with its claws out." - Columbus News
The blurry lines at the bottom reveal the ruse: that this book is meant to be comedy, not misogyny: "Enjoy the most rib-tickling treat you've ever had or return in 5 days - for refund. Don't delay. A unique hilarious experience is yours! Send this coupon - TODAY!" Doesn't exactly match up with the hateful copy we've seen up to now. Or maybe it does? Too bad these books aren't still around. They'd be a unique, rib-tickling psychological illumination.
Another Separated at Birth. I have always thought that these soulful photos from the 1928 silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc (starring Renee Jeanne Falconetti) resemble a young Christopher Walken, doe eyes, eerie gaze, great cheekbones and all. The fact that Walken looked almost feminine seems ironic in light of the fact that he aged into something more like deeply weathered shoe leather.
I've seen people claim that the very young Walken (who is plastered all over the internet, being a child star from birth) looks like Scarlett Johansson, and it's somewhat true: the bow-shaped lips and Scandinavian-looking facial structure are congruent. I've also seen him compared to Jon Voight, and that one I can get on-board with because I have mistaken him for Voight more than once. They've aged similarly, the way a peach ages. When the juice goes out, the skin shrivels. Blonde men are thin-skinned like women, and are more likely to suffer this fate. But his twinkly ironic smile still flashes like a searchlight, igniting his enigmatic face most delightfully. I don't know if there is a Walken biography out there - no doubt if there is, it would be inadequate to cover the incredible breadth and depth of his career, which he is so deceptively nonchalant about. He talks as if it fell into his lap. Well, maybe it did, but he'd be the first.
I'm re-reading a massive bio of Marlon Brando by Peter Manso - well over 900 pages, and this was written before Brando died! Another couple hundred could have been added, and maybe was. This is the sort of book where the binding falls apart, where it makes a welt in your lap when you read it. We need that sort of book on Walken, because his career is vastly more varied and detailed than Brando's, without being derailed by chasing after social issues which always looked a little like publicity stunts. Sacheen Littlefeather, indeed. A time and a place.
I don't know, however. He is a chameleon and seems to skate over things, perhaps for self-protection. I have seen only one picture of him with his wife, a tiny woman who barely comes up to his shoulder, and his pose with her is so protective he seems to enfold her. He takes any old work now, just takes it because it's all he has, seemingly. He gives the same interviews over and over again, same questions, same answers. Though he is a crack dancer and has had moments of brilliance in this long and wide career, this huge map spreading out in every direction, he has also been in some turkeys - quite a lot of them - just for something to do. I winced a bit to see him in a Superbowl ad for some kind of car, in which he did a blatant parody of himself. This, when he despises scriptwriters who try to "Walkenize" his part.
But at least he didn't self-destruct like all those other child stars did, which is pretty amazing. He got married just once when he was very young, stayed that way, and doesn't talk about it. This is a definite sign of sanity. And no drastic visions, so he isn't likely to be hitched to a pole and set on fire any time soon.
I met him at a party Just a couple of years ago He was rather over-hearty and ridiculous
But as I'd seen him on the screen he cast a certain spell I basked in his attraction For a couple of hours or so His manners were a fraction too meticulous
If he was real or not I couldn't tell But like a silly fool I fell
Mad about the boy I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy I'm so ashamed of it But must admit
The sleepless nights I've had
About the boy On the silver screen
He melts my foolish heart in every single scene Although I'm quite aware That here and there Are traces of the cad
About the boy
Lord knows I'm not a fool-girl I really shouldn't care Lord knows I'm not a school-girl In the flurry of her first affair
Will it ever cloy This odd diversity of misery and joy I'm feeling quite insane and young again And all because I'm mad about the boy
SCHOOL GIRL:
Home work, home work Every night there's homework While Elsie practices the gas goes pop I wish, I wish she'd stop
Oh dear, oh dear Here it's always, 'No dear You can't go out again, you must stay home You'd waste your money on that common Picturedrome Don't shirk—stay here and do your work.'
Yearning, yearning How my heart is burning I'll see him Saturday in Strong Man's Pain And then on Monday and on Friday week again
To me, he is the sole man Who can kiss as well as Coleman I could faint whenever there's a close-up of his lips
Though John Barrymore is larger When my hero's on his charger Even Douglass Fairbanks Junior hasn't smaller hips If only he could know That I adore him so
Mad about the boy It's simply scrumptous to be mad about the boy I know that quite sincerely Houseman really Wrote The Shropshire Lad about the boy
In my English prose I've done a tracing of his forehead and his nose And there is, honour bright A certain slight Effect of Galahad about the boy
I've talked to Rosie Hooper She feels the same as me She says that Gary Cooper Doesn't thrill her to the same degree In Can Love Destroy?
He meets with Garbo in a suit of corduroy He gives a little frown And knocks her down Oh dear, oh dear, I'm mad about the boy
COCKNEY:
Every Wednesday afternoon I get a little time off from three to eleven Then I go to the picture house
and taste a little of my particular heaven
He appears In a little while Through a mist of tears I can see him smiling Above me Every picture I see him in Every lovers' caress Makes my wonderful dreams begin
Makes me long to confess That if he ever looked at me And thought perhaps I was worth the trouble to Love me I'd give in and I wouldn't care However far from the path of virtue he'd Shove me!
Just supposing our love was brief If he treated me rough I'd be happy beyond belief Once would be enough
Mad about the boy I know I'm potty but I'm mad about the boy! He sets me 'eart on fire With love's desire In fact I've got it bad about the boy! When I do the rooms I see his face in all the brushes and the brooms!
Last week I strained me back And got the sack And had a row with dad about the boy I'm finished with Navarro, (He thrills me to the marrow) I'm tired of Richard Dix, (I sit through all his tricks!) I'm pierced by Cupid's arrow Every Wed-nes-day, from four to six!
'Ow I should enjoy To let 'im treat me like a plaything or a toy I'd give my all to 'im And crawl to 'im So 'elp me God, I'm mad about the boy
TART:
It seems a little silly For a girl my age and weight To walk down Piccadilly In a haze of love
It ought to take a good deal more to get a bad girl down I should have been exempt, for My particular kind of fate Has taught me such contempt for Every phase of love
And now I've been and spent my last half-crown To weep about a painted clown
Mad about the boy It's pretty funny but I'm mad about the boy He has a gay appeal That makes me feel There may be something sad about the boy
Walking down the street His eyes look out at me from people that I meet I can't believe it's true But when I'm blue In some strange way I'm glad about the boy
I'm hardly sentimental Love isn't so sublime I have to pay my rental And I can't afford to waste much time
If I could employ A little magic that would finally destroy This dream that pains me And enchains me But I can't because I'm mad about the boy
