Bobbed

Every Winter, we hunker down for months of living in the dark while the world around us settles into its annual parade of decay. It is a long, cold walk beneath a frosty grey sky; weighed down by a claustrophobic cocoon of heavy, chafing clothing, propped up by salt-dirtied boots, there is little to do but wait for the warmth of better times. Weeks before the official arrival of Spring, perhaps heartened by a prematurely balmy day, we start sloughing off or burying the various vestiges of Winter-sweaters are folded and bagged, legs are slowly bared, and hairstyles change. Nothing ushers in the new post-doldrums season, for me, quite like a bob.

It is refreshing, liberating and, as the most modern of looks, eternally relevant. In F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1920 short story, "Bernice Bobs Her Hair", the heroine may have been duped into going under the barber's razor but she should not have been so worried: her hairstyle, lank as it may be, is iconic. Poor Bernice ushered in a decade that was to see the bob take over the world. At the start, it was scarcely-to-be-spoken of daring. By the time of Black Tuesday, everyone's Grandmother had given into the craze and bared her neck.

The bob, in all of its impressive variety, was worn by most silent movie stars. The otherwise antithetical Colleen Moore and Louise Brooks were both exemplars of the bob. Colleen's was a sportier, more approachable version than Louise's sleek, sexy take, yet they both owned the style. They remain very modern looking, even contemporary, girls because of that hair. It has stayed popular these last nine decades for a reason: it is as universally flattering as the little black dress or a great shade of red lipstick.

Every March/April, I am slowly overcome with the ever-increasing itch to lop off all of my hair. It is truly a seasonal thing. As soon as heat starts accompanying sunshine, I become obsessed with the idea of short hair. Sometimes, this works to my advantage. A year ago, I was growing my hair when the leaves turned green; as it had been a pixie the previous autumn, it was at a perfectly chic mid-chin level. This year, it is on the cusp of cascading past my shoulders. As I am aiming for Veronica Lake territory by December, it is crucial that I ignore the peer-pressure voice in my head that is advocating a good, old-fashioned whacking.

Although it is surely only a matter of time before I return to my favourite hairstyle, I have reached a compromise, one that I am hoping will allow me to keep an aesthetic detente going for at least a few more months: that Red Carpet darling, the faux-bob (also known as the did-she-or-didn't-she). Until I am psychically prepared to again take the plunge into bared neck-dom, I will fake it like so many others. When that day arrives, I will be able to say, like Bernice, "You see"--her words fell into an awkward pause--"I've done it."

Left to Right: Zelda Fitzgerald; Nancy Carroll; Colleen Moore.

Cameras and Cake

I was lucky enough to spend a wonderful, and wonderfully busy, weekend with my mom. We shopped a little, ate a lot, and laughed even more. The only work-related task I accomplished was the purchase of a new, desperately needed, camera (more on that later). In appreciation of its five years of dedicated yet erratic service, I gave my old Kodak one more whirl by taking a few photographs of the dessert we made on Saturday.

Tomorrow, I will be back on task with something bookish, something cinematic, and something decorative.

Delicious Details: Thank you, England, for gifting the world with a ready-made Sponge Cake Mix. Though I love to bake from scratch, Sponge Cake is something I would never normally bother making. Enter "Green's Classic Sponge Recipe", one egg, some water, my Mother's elbow grease and voila! Robertson's Raspberry Jam is the yummy red center.

Obligatory "Green" Post in Honor of St. Patrick's Day (so I am not kicked off of the blogosphere)

Even though it provides me with a ready excuse to drink, St. Patrick's Day leaves me disappointingly indifferent. I neither understand nor appreciate the fuss. However, I am a redhead; as such, it is pretty much guaranteed that I love the colour green. I do, in every shade. It accounts for a sizable amount of my wardrobe; I could easily wear a green garment every day for two weeks., without feeling even slightly pinched by the challenge. What I do not have, unfortunately, is a green thumb. It is terrifyingly difficult for me to keep plants alive. Once, several years ago, I managed to desiccate my best friend's large collection of African Violet houseplants; her sojourn to visit her sister in Germany lasted a mere 2 1/2 weeks. I followed her explicit directions to the very letter; all but 3 died.

I can manage to keep cacti alive for sustained periods; my current specimen has been in my possession for 3 months and counting. I also have a lovely, stark, and serene boxwood wreath hanging in my kitchen hall. I have been told that, with an occasional spritz, it can stay alive for years. We will see.

I am an anomaly within my family. My Mother, especially, has superior gardening skills. She designed, planted, and kept the loveliest English cottage garden in front of the house in which I grew up. To this day, no matter where she lives, she cultivates things that are both beautiful and, well, alive.I have always envied that ability, as well as the level of interest and dedication it takes to keep such an endeavour not only going but thriving. In several of my myriad fantasy lives, I have a wild, intensely colourful and artistic garden at my disposal (puttering around in it it seems like a quintessentially 1920's English writer hobby).In reality, I live not only in the city but in an entirely self-contained flat. Though there is a public park across the street, it is largely for walking dogs and playing children; the flowers are entirely mundane (to such a degree that even I, with my chronic flower-name amnesia, can recite every single kind with alacrity).

Unless I suddenly find myself mistress of a wee patch of land, coupled with a newly-realized power to maintain flora for more than 3 weeks' time, I will have to stay content with other people's efforts,a closet-full of green clothes, and fantastically verdant dreams.

Dress: Liberty of London for Target

Poetess in Motion

Poetess in Motion by amisslis featuring Nine West bags

Where Books Are Dropping Like Flies

I have worked in the same suburb of The Queen City, my adopted home, for three years. In that time, I have seen businesses come and go, at what I assume to be a normal rate. Even in a healthy economic climate, the retail landscape remains judiciously in flux; it usually comes as no big surprise to see occasional doors close. Any sizable mall is testament enough to this. Yet, over the last 13 months, there has been a sad trend in this otherwise jumping little town. In approximately a week's time, its remaining book-store will be gone.
Waldenbooks, though never a favourite of mine, was the first casualty. It disappeared from the mall after the 2008 holidays. It was replaced by a generic clothing store. Borders, located across the street, followed a few months later. The building remains empty, as does the hull of the Old Navy next door. Half Price Books formed the third side of the triangle. Fortunately, it is not going under. Rather, it is moving to a presumably better location 10 minutes away, to the next town over.
These are, of course, all large conglomerate chain stores. There were no Indie book sellers to go under; which, to my mind, is an even sadder statement. Of the 3, Half-Price Books is my favourite. It is not a bad little haunt to wander around in: there is a large, eclectic, ever-revolving selection of books and music. It is green to the extent that most items are used. The staff is friendly and not over-bearing, with a respectful amount of knowledge. (I will never forget over-hearing, many years ago in a different city, a customer ask a baffled and blank Waldenbooks clerk if they carried anything by Kerouac.)
The closure of 3 book stores may seem trifling. Those cavernous boxes will eventually be replaced by something else equally ephemeral. The world goes on, unblinking. Yet, for bibliophiles, the loss can dig down to a deeper place: it is not merely a matter of being inconvenienced by a longer drive.
The dream--and occasional reality--of dashing around the corner to browse randomly through stacks of books is finally, painfully gone. I cannot, somewhat leisurely, but to the countdown of a ticking lunch clock, make my way through my preferred shelves: Performing Arts followed, inexorably, by Literature, Reference, and Poetry. (Any left-over time being spent running up to a variety of entirely unrelated shiny books, spied from the corner of a wandering eye, like a literate crow.)
For those of us in love with it, reading is a complete and complex experience. It does not begin when you open the cover and turn to the first page. Selecting a book--and the myriad reasons that you can be drawn to one book over another--is an integral part of the process. It is the thrill of an intellectual, yet enticingly physical hunt.
This is, however, not an entirely personal and selfish lamentation. Every community needs to be artistically and intellectually enriched by at least a few of the businesses in its district. It cannot all be fast food joints and gas stations, mini-marts and office supply stores. A town that cannot, for whatever litany of reasons, support a bookstore, art gallery, or coffee shop while cheap, throw-away chains thrive, is poorer as a result.

Fever. Spring.

"It's Spring Fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"-Mark Twain

After a long, cold, numbing Winter, it is all too easy to prematurely jump into the heady concept of Spring. I know full well that we have not seen the last of frost, icy rain, or flurries. Yet, all it takes is a bit of sunshine to make me dizzy with the thought of the warmth and languor of the upcoming season. The evenings remain hot-chocolate worthy--my car is still tinged with a delicate layer of frost most mornings--but I cannot stop myself from dreaming of bright-green grass and fire-flies, sun-dresses and sandals. I suppose that it is only natural to want to shrug off the freezing, fat, short days of Winter at the first tiny sign of newness and freshness. Every store in the country is in cahoots with this feeling: bathing suits and flip-flops have been lining the racks for weeks. The April issues of magazines are touting the turn of the season in glorious, lush, expensive colour. I am tempted to take the dog on long sojourns to the park across the street where, if the truth be named, the grass is still a sad, drab shade of semi-green.
March is, indeed, full of the last vestiges of Winter. The Academy Awards ceremony is tonight. College basketball play-off madness is nearly here. Though I can go outside without a jacket, there is a slight chill in the air, which becomes all too obvious as soon as a foot is set out of the sunshine. Mark Twain was quite correct in his assessment of Spring Fever. I have become antsy for something new, bright, and lovely; annually I associate it with the dawn of warm weather, the chirping of birds, a breeze turned comfortable. It can never, never get here soon enough. I base every good, strong hope for the near-future on its arrival. It is amazing how a gentle reminder-to-self to live in the moment, to not wish away even an inch of your life, can be so fruitless when at long-last sunshine and heat is dangled before you. Fever, indeed.
It is difficult to rein in this type of giddiness yet, I am beginning to think, upon actual consideration, worth the effort. There is nothing wrong with a few more mugs of hot chocolate or bowls of soup, a few more weeks where the dog curled up at my feet is welcoming rather than stifling. Perhaps I do not really need those Coach sandals or cotton-coloured bikini right this second. Sleeping under a blanket has its merits, after all; and so does enjoying the air that you are breathing right now, exactly where you are, even if it is a bit nippy.

Bookish Bliss: Silent Players by Anthony Slide

One of the things that I am fervently anticipating about our upcoming move is the chance to free the rest of my book collection from the storage bin, where it has unhappily resided for the past 18 months. As most of you probably know, I own a lot of books. Though my collection is not as vast as my heart would dictate if it had free reign over my pocketbook, it is still large enough to make a small-town pubic library envious. Pondered in this light, purchasing another volume is probably not the most necessary action that I could take. However, for us feverish-reader types, there are certain books that speak to us at such a high, insistent pitch that they cannot, for long, be ignored. On such occasions, a benign browsing-trip to the book-store can turn into a pleading session between your heart and your wallet. This afternoon, the former trounced the latter; this is how I came to have Anthony Slide's 'Silent Players' in my possession.
I have a mania for Pre-1930's cinema. Anthony Slide was lucky enough to befriend many of the performers of that era while they were in their twilight years; he is also a fantastic film historian, with many wonderful, insightful genre books to his credit. Although I am a critical reader, I will never be a jaded one; thus, I am nearly crazy with delight over the thought of delving into this volume. There are books that you purposely seek out, and those that you casually happen upon. (It is a toss-up as to which anticipation is more acute.) This one fell into my lap, as I was idly time-killing at Half-Price Books with The Chef. Although I will likely rush through it, I am going to try my best to slowly savor this particular word-sensory experience. However it plays out, I promise to write about it here, in one form or another. Reading may be a solo practice but its impact is ultimately collective; the best books are meant to be shared.

Let's All Say This Together in Case We Have Forgotten-Characterization is Why Actors Should Win Awards or: Why Christoph Waltz Deserves an Oscar

I love the glittery, hallowed, border-line kitschy pomp of the Academy Awards ceremony. The annual swagger-fest of self-love is always full of aesthetic delights and amusements; chock-a-block full of controversy, humour, ridiculousness, and genuinely heart-warming moments, it is ever entertaining. Stars, in all of their peacock-majesty, alight on the most famous red carpet in the world. This is where we, the fans, await; whether in person or sitting at home in our living rooms, we come to fawn, gape, admire and censure the entire whirring, colourful affair.
The experience is multi-faceted and highly individualistic; we all watch for different reasons. I love the dresses and the jewels--and the gossipy bonding opportunity shared with my mom. Yet, as a passionate cinema fan, ex-actress, and classic film writer, I come back year after year for that most elusive of things: a well-deserved win, one that is so right-feeling as to be virtually indisputable.
Last year, I was thrilled that Kate Winslet finally won a Best Actress statuette. She is my favourite actress (of my own generation, at any rate)--which makes the win personal, biased, and subjective. Her performance in 'The Reader' was certainly honest, sinewy, breathtaking. Her moment at the podium was , to most of us, long over-due. Yet, there are surely those who preferred another actress, another performance, for whatever mysterious, complex, or simple reason(s).
On this year's telecast, which airs on Sunday, 7 March, there is a single award that I am anticipating. Everything else can be shunted aside: the clothes, the accessories, the awkwardly long-winded acceptance speeches, all of the other golden accolades of the evening mean little next to this one presentation. Lifelong tradition or not, I am tuning in this year to watch Christoph Waltz ('Inglourious Basterds') walk away with the title of Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role.
Sure, it is seemingly easy to get behind the already awards-laden, critically lauded front-runner. He has won in his category at every major awards show of the season. Contenders rarely come this strong, especially when their performance is at the center of a popular commercial hit master-minded by the only director on the planet to enjoy rock-star like status. Yet, for all of this cache, for all of the silver-tongued words of praise, for all of the interviews, he remains largely unknown. He may be just below our consciousness, but his performance is not.
Occasionally, and to an entirely unpredictable pattern, an actor captures a character to scintillating, near-scientific perfection. You forget everything that came before, forget that you are watching a performance: you are deliciously in the moment. For a couple of hours, fiction attains primacy over reality. Being in the presence of a fully-realized character should be temporarily mind-altering. Waltz's urbane, gleeful, and horrifying Hans Landa does just that.
I do not worship without thought at the quirky, disheveled, disturbing altar of Quentin Tarantino. There is both much to love and revile in his work but when he gets it right, it is awe-inspiring. The script to 'Inglourious Basterds', also by Tarantino, is fantastic; the kind to make any writer envious.The bones of Hans Landa are laid out admirably, as scripted. Very little flesh-and-blood contribution from an actor would have been necessary to make him truly memorable; he was written that way. This makes Christoph Waltz's landing, and interpretation, of the role that much luckier for movie-goers.
In Tarantino's revisionist history, where hilarity and suffering cohabit in nearly every frame,Nazi Colonel Hans Landa is smooth, rotten-souled, honeyed, and terrifying. Evil has scarcely been more articulate. He's a hands-on, joyful killer of the innocent: the man clearly enjoys his work. There is no glimmer of redemption in this cold opportunist. Yet, Waltz as Landa mesmerises even as he terrifies. It is a rich, complex, brazen, center-of-the-spotlight performance. Many actors would have gone full-on ham with this role. Waltz, much more subtly, glimmers and thrives in a characterization that is startling; there is a sense of privileged acceptance, an acknowledgment of his great luck present in his brilliant performance, that is rare to see from an actor.
Hans Landa is, to my mind, the most fully satisfying film character in recent memory. This is not lionizing evil--he is chilling and too self-serving to have preserved even a breath of humanity. As such, he is appalling. It is not the role itself but the seamless, kinetic, unsettling inhabiting of the role accomplished by Waltz that deserves the most merit. A part as written, however promising on the white page, is like a master-less puppet. Though entertaining by itself, it takes talent, patience, and audacious manipulation by a professional to be brought to glorious, mobile, full-bodied life.
Timeless performances are often those that embrace the uncomfortable, the uneasy, the painfully humourous, the raw elements of human existence. Capturing even a sliver of that truth on celluloid happens too infrequently. When it does, it is nice to see it rewarded. This, readers, is why I will be keeping my fingers firmly crossed come Sunday. The Academy has a chance to get it beautifully, undeniably right. The occasional correct choice is, ultimately, what keeps us coming back for more.

"Beauty is whatever gives joy."-Edna St. Vincent Millay