Friday, November 11, 2011
The Wicked Witch: Isn't She Lovely
While we're on the subject of Oz, let's get away from dead munchkins hanging from trees for a while and look at a little snippet of Margaret Hamilton's screen test for The Wizard of Oz. This wasn't an audition, as she was an obvious shoo-in with her ascetic face and gorgeously witch-y voice. I think this was a test of makeup and costume: the producers didn't want another Buddy Ebsen on their hands (he nearly expired from the lead-based makeup for the Tin Man and had to wait thirty more years to attain legendary status as Jed Clampett on The Beverley Hillbillies).
She does a little good-natured witching, showing her hands to the camera, etc., but from .16 to .20 she suddenly smiles so radiantly that you wonder how she ever could've played such a . . . witch. She actually looks lovely, sunny, and full of good humour.
Who'd a thunkit, eh?
Munchkin Suicide: Caught on Tape!
Do you sincerely wish to be creeped out? Then watch this. There's been an internet rumour around for years about The Wizard of Oz: supposedly you can see a munchkin hanging himself in the background while Dorothy, the Tin Man and the Scarecrow do their sprightly little "Off to See the Wizard" quickstep.
I have no idea if the tape has been doctored, or if it's just something else in the background (though it does appear to swing oddly). In other versions, definitely doctored, you see legs kicking out. In still others, the munchkin is hanging upside-down. Not the best way to kill yourself.
The reason given is that he was up for the part of the third flying monkey from the left, and didn't get it due to his Armenian accent.
How many times have I seen this movie? I still watch it once in a while, and it's crackin' good. It holds up well and is beautifully performed all the way through by actors who seem to relish their parts. (Next time you watch it, pay close attention to Ray Bolger when Dorothy is saying goodbye at the end: those are real tears in his eyes. Something about Judy Garland grabbed the heart of even this seasoned old pro.) It even has a timeless message: you gotta find everything out for yourself, kid - no matter how obvious the lesson is in retrospect.
When I was a kid, it would come on once a year like Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol (the one with the "razzleberry dressing"), and nobody had a colour TV. But everybody got excited about it and talked about it in school. It didn't bother us that Dorothy stepped from the black-and-white world of the barnyard to the magical, astonishing black-and-white world of Oz because we thought it was spozed-ta be that way.
When I first saw it in colour, and God knows when that was, maybe on TV much later, I was blinded by all the sequins. Everything seems to glitter in this, but then again, Oz is a supernatural sort of place, isn't it? And I'll bet all those sequins were sewn on by hand.
And it took me forever to figure out that it was the same guys at the beginning, you know, that guy that falls into the piggy poo and stuff. And why'd they have such a runty little dog on a farm? I guess the border collie didn't get the part.
And oh, I still cry when Dorothy's imprisoned in the witch's tower and the hourglass is running out and Aunty Em appears in the crystal ball and says, Dorothy! Dorothy, where are you? I'm embarrassed, but I always do.
My grandkids watched this on DVD a couple years ago, and while Caitlin squirmed around and stood on her head a lot, she seemed to enjoy at least parts of it. She had fun imitating the actors' nasal New England and Bronxian accents, i. e. "If I only had a haaahhhht," and "Dah-rah-thee!" Surprisingly, Ryan, then four, was playing cars as usual, but dropped what he was doing, sat cross-legged, and watched the whole thing almost without blinking. I asked him what he liked best, and he showed me his dimple and said, "I liked the ending."
Ah, yes - so do we all.
So anyway, what's creepy about this clip isn't so much the shadowy "something" in the background (and God knows what it really is; most movies have multiple flubs in them even now), but the way the sound keeps slowing down and slowing down until it's an inhuman, dragged-out, almost Satanic groan, the music pounding and thudding and the voices bawling like tortured animals.
S'cool! I liked it, too.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Favorite rejection letters
Rejections. Oh yes, indeed. You're supposed to paper a wall with them, and no doubt I could have papered a whole house, except that I prefer to use them to roast weenies.
Here's a favorite, scrawled acress my original query letter and sent back to me in my stamped self-addressed envelope: "THANKS, BUT NO THANKS."
(I kind of get a kick out of the fact that I have to pay to get these things. They're either too cheap or don't want to bother putting a stamp on something.)
Rubber-stamped in upper right-hand corner of original letter: "LIST IS FULL."
"Dear Ms. Gunning. We read your science fiction story. Frankly, the only idea we've seen more often than this one is the guy going back in time and stepping on a butterfly."
"Hi Margaret, we liked your story, but why does it have to be so depressing? Lighten up!"
"After much consideration, we do not feel that you are ready for the novel form."
"LIST IS FULL."
"Though we are all in agreement that your novel is destined for the best-seller list, we are certain it will not be with us."
"This may be the wrong decision, in fact we may regret it for the rest of our lives, but - no."
"Some fine writing here, and you should definitely keep at it, but this is just not up to our standards."
"Sorry."
"Why does the violin talk?"
By extension, let's take a look at some of those Famous Rejections we're always hearing about. My personal favorites are the ones that are completely fabricated (by me).
"Dear Mr. Clemens. This boy character of yours is completely repugnant. His so-called "adventures" will never draw a readership, particularly since you insist on pairing him with that Negro person."
"Dear Mr. Dickens. To begin with, we don't like your pen-name - no one will take it seriously - and we are unclear about one thing. Which 'two cities' do you mean?"
"Miss Bronte, why must you insist on scribbling away like this when you could be making yourself useful doing needlework instead?"
"Mr Poe, pick yourself up out of the gutter and turn that morbid mind of yours to more wholesome subjects. That black bird of yours is most unattractive."
"My dear Miss Alcott, to set your story during the Civil War is nothing but a cheap device to gain reader sympathy. And as for those four girls - they are unmemorable and dreadfully dull."
"Mr. Yeats, not to put to fine a point on it, your poems are an undecipherable mess. Study rhyme and meter before approaching us again."
"Dear Mr. King: Please be advised that menstruation is not an acceptable topic, even in a horror novel. We advise that you take up some other field of endeavour."
"Mr. Joyce. Condolences on your illness. We hope you find a suitable sanitorium in the near future."
(And, here it is - my all-time favorite):
"Whales, Mr. Melville?"
(Codicil. Interesting little note, below. I wonder if they rejected him. Bazinga!)
Dear Editor,
I am 14 years of age, and have been writing as far back as I can remember, and submitting manuscripts for the last couple of years. I subscribe to your magizine (sic), and my favorite feature is the Obituary department, although "O. Henry's Comet", for which this story is intended, runs a close second.
Thanks very much for reading my story. I hope you see your way clear to put it in "O. Henry's Comet."
Sincerely,
Stephen King
Rt #1, Bownal
Maine
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Justin Bieber Fails DNA Test!
EXCLUSIVE! The world held its breath as Justin Bieber provided a sample of his sperm - oops, I mean his blood, or was it that saliva thing-ie,that swab thingammie from your cheek? Anyway, he did that thing you're ssupposed to do to prove you didn't get that girl into the bathroom and do the nasty with her while she had her little bare butt in a cold sink (or, worse, a urinal).
We all know the Beaver - oops, the Biebs or whatever he's called - is way too young for sex in the bathroom, or anywhere else for that matter. In fact, there is an avid discussion as to whether he has attained his full manhood. Perhaps, like his predecessor Ronnie Howard ("Opie" on The Andy Griffith Show), he will be one of the few human beings on earth never to reach puberty.
All that aside, we still have this mercenary bitch saying that Justin lost his virginity with her when he was, like, twelve.
Can you imagine him having sex? Even with himself?
I mean, just look at that face!
Then came breaking news that shattered his legions of androgynous 12-year-old fans: Justin had failed his test. He only got 68% and had to take a makeup exam. Oops, that's not what we meant at all.
Lucinda Dagnabbit of Extortionville, Texas stood triumphant in front of cameras, while Justin dove under the bed with his lawyers. "I just knew one of them-thar li'l swimmers made its way through his Dacron pants," she stated, cradling little Abner Dagnabbit in her arms.
The resemblance between the baby and his father is remarkable.
Rumors abound that Lil' Abner is actually a girl, a claim his or her mother does not dispute: "Waal, his father's a girl too," she explained.
After reluctantly coming out from under the bed, The Biebs confessed his paternity to legions of fans waiting under his balcony.
"It's true, guys," he said. "This little package here is mine."
Obviously, the guy with the most famous bangs in the world has a whole lot of 'splainin' to do.
BREAKING NEWS! Geneticist Sheldon Cooper, best known for playing a wingnut genius in the hit comedy The Let's Bang Theory, has disputed the results of Justin Bieber's recent paternity test. "Someone spilled Diet Coke on the sample," he claims. A retest reveals shocking news!
The true father of Abner Dagnabbit is none other than. . .
Justin BEAVER! His treacherous bitch of a girl friend switched samples to try to blackmail poor innocent little so-and-so (and aren't you tired of hearing about him by now?)
As a matter of fact, Bieber didn't really dangle that baby, because that baby was only a decoy created by Anne Geddes and available on Craigslist for $249.00 (very useful if you want to get your in-laws off your back every time they say when are you gonna have that baby anyway?).
Close examination reveals that the actual offspring in question, Abernathy Dagnabbit Beaver, now 17 years of age, bears absolutely no resemblance to Justin, whose eyebrows are much closer together.
But nagging questions remain. Some fans still believe Bieber is a biological hybrid capable of fathering a child with very large teeth. Suspicions were raised when he bought the family a $10,000,000.00 mansion in Beverly Hills.
When questioned about the validity of all this genetic bickering, Dr. Sheldon Cooper offered what is perhaps the final word on the subject: "You're in my spot."
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look
Order The Glass Character from:
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA
Barnes & Noble
Thistledown Press
Monday, November 7, 2011
War is hell (but what is writing?)
WRITING IS HELL
If you're a
freelance writer and aren't used to being ignored, neglected, and generally
given short shrift, you must not have been in the business very long.
Poppy Z. Brite
Coleridge
was a drug addict. Poe was an alcoholic. Marlowe was killed by a man whom he
was treacherously trying to stab. Pope took money to keep a woman's name out of
a satire then wrote a piece so that she could still be recognized anyhow.
Chatterton killed himself. Byron was accused of incest. Do you still want to a
writer - and if so, why?
Bennett Cerf
I am
irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose
fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.
Gustave Flaubert
Writing is
not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your
hands afterwards.
Robert A. Heinlein
It's tougher
than Himalayan yak jerky in january.
Richard Krzemien
Writing is not
a genteel profession. It's quite nasty and tough and kind of dirty.
Rosemary Mahoney
Follow the
path of your aroused thought, and you will soon meet this infernal inscription:
There is nothing so beautiful as that which does not exist.
Paul Valery
Writing is
so difficult that I feel that writers, having had their hell on earth, will
escape all punishment hereafter.
Jessamyn West
I was
working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma.
In the afternoon I put it back again.
Oscar Wilde
If writing
seems hard, it’s because it is hard. It’s one of the hardest things people do.
William Zinsser
Easy reading
is damned hard writing.
Anonymous
Ahhhhhh, JESUS, not one of these blocks of quotes again, all about "the writer's life" and what sheer hell it is to write and about how you must shed your skin and ooze out quarts of blood and etc. etc.
It's not like that. Not like that at all. At least, not for me.
I love to write. Sitting down to work on this blog every morning is more fun than going to the beach. Hell, the circus! I don't worry about the quality of it at all. It's play.
No one wants to hear this, but I have to say, though I've had my share of struggles with the craft and was not really ready to try to publish a novel until well into my 40s, most of it has been pleasurable in a way that borders on the sexual.
I don't know why that is. Many of these quoters, not to mention gazillions of others, would conclude, "That's because you're a lousy writer." It took me a while to disagree with this. Actually, what it took was getting two novels published. It still breaks my heart that they ended up selling so poorly, but out of something like thirty reviews between the two of them, only one was negative.
My publisher at the time said, "It's a miracle, Margaret." I wanted to say: how 'bout twenty years of hard work? Yes, but hard work that still brought a smile to my face.
Writing is hell, supposedly - nearly everyone says so, or wants you to think so - but in my mind, at this stage, right now, what is really hell is trying to get it out there. I think I still have something valuable to share: in fact, I know it. Maybe I am being punished for this, although at the same time we're all supposed to be brimming over with self-esteem (see My Declaration of Self-Esteem, yesterday's post).
It's so weird: writers are supposed to be furtive (as if it's a secretive, even dirty activity). They're supposed to sweat blood: if there's an exhilarating flow to the work day-to-day that results in a work you are immensely proud of, you must be doing it wrong.
You've got to suffer. SUFFER. Big-time. If you don't, it can't be any goddamn good.
I suffer all right, but suffer in the process of trying to get my story into the hands of readers. Here, too, public perception is extremely odd. People react with a kind of embarrassment that you even want such a thing. Shouldn't you just be content to write it and put it away somewhere? What about the process; shouldn't it be its own reward?
I hate to go back to the old saw about the professional cellist or ballet dancer who has trained all her life, is at the very top of her field, and never gets to perform. Shouldn't she be OK with that? Shouldn't she just be content to play her Steinway in an empty hall?
Phhwaaaaaahhh!
Writers who want to share their stories are egotists, and if they actually want to make money, they are mercenaries. Never mind that they have bills to pay like everyone else.
It's odd, but I've noticed over the years/decades that the first thing people ask you when they find out you're a writer (and I never tell them any more because they always look so doubtful) is, "Have you published anything?" When I tell them, they invariably ask, "Did you self-publish?" (or "e-publish", that other free-floating form of the vanity press). When I tell them no, they look at me quizzically and say something like, "However did you manage to do that?"
It's kind of like my freelance work. I've written at least a thousand columns and reviews which have accumulated over 25 years or so. (No one believes this, either. But I wrote weekly pieces, which adds up to 50 or so a year. Do the math.) This is what I heard, all the time, but furtively, as if someone was opening their coat to show me dirty postcards:
"Do they pay you for that?" (in a doubtful tone).
When I say yes, they then ask:
"How much?" (Last time I checked, it was rude to ask someone who works at McDonalds how much they are paid. It just is not done.)
Then comes (incredulous):
(a) "That much?" (or, conversely):
(b) "Is that all?"
Anyway, this is turning into a load of complaining again. I don't complain about the writing process too much any more. Blogging has broken the ice jam and brought back the exhilaration I used to feel before everyone started trying to convince me that Writing Is Hell.
But I'm still on that road. It's called The Glass Character, folks. It's a novel. I think it's the best thing I've ever done. As far as I know, no one has even looked at it: my reviews mean nothing, I guess, because my previous two (PUBLISHED!!) novels didn't sell very well.
And yes, THIS is hell, and always will be. There are a gazillion quotes about how desirable failure is, about how we should all have as many failures as we can possibly manage because we learn so much from them and become Better People.
But in publishing, even one failure (or perceived shortcoming) can sink you forever.
Be warned.
Getting published is hell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)