The Harlow Cake, all ready to go...
A collage of what I dubbed 'The Harlow Cake', as it was white-on-white. I finished it off with some bright confetti.
Nassau's patience was tried but his superior manners and breeding prevailed.
Showing posts with label Oscars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oscars. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Earlier in the Day the Dog and I Decided to Bake a Little Harlow Cake
The Harlow Cake, all ready to go...A collage of what I dubbed 'The Harlow Cake', as it was white-on-white. I finished it off with some bright confetti.
Traditions Old and New
One of my favourite mother-daughter rituals extends back through the years of my childhood, back to a long-dissolved time when memory ,as such, conscious or concrete, didn't exist. It has held a place in my life's routine for so long, however brief its annual appearance, that it simply is, as it has always been.Other shards of memory flicker through like film running at the wrong speed: the smell of her perfume, which in my mind is always Emeraude, stopped up in its green bottle; eating Jiffy snack cake and drinking hot chocolate, sitting on the floor and dining on the coffee table, as a special treat; watching baseball with my Grandpa on TV, in order to spend time with him after my Grandma exiled him to the bedroom; watching the Miss America and Miss USA pageants in their gaudy, tacky fun, a routine that we mutually stopped some time in my late teens.
The ritual that has outlasted them all, to this day, and with grace and good fortune will stand unbroken for many a year to come, till the as-yet generation has joined us in our revelry, is, of course, the yearly Oscars telecast.We enjoy, as a rule, most of the shows that make up Awards season, from the Emmys to The Golden Globes and BAFTA's. The People's Choice Awards are an exception; apparently we are not of the same mind as 'the people', whoever they may be.
By the time that The Hollywood Foreign Press throws their shindig, we are really geared up. That night is kind of a dry run for what comes a few weeks later. I would aver that the Oscars is like our Super Bowl but that would be markedly sexist and, as I really love football, untrue. Yet we anticipate it with the same sense of fervor and planning, down to the Awards Day Menu, which is usually every bit as fattening, casual and decadent as any Game Day tailgate party.No Oscar glitz and glamour filters down to the cuisine. Nachos, potato-skins,wings or corn dogs, brownies, the sort of caloric gore-fest that you save up for.
The point of watching the awards isn't just as an excuse to chow down on junk food. Other things factor into the celebration as well. Namely, clothing choice and, of course, who wins and who loses. As an ex-acting student and board-treader, the latter always fascinates me, as it would anyone, really, who finds psychological interest in that over-blown popularity contest. The fact that, on occasion, a nerd or new kid in town prevails usually keeps that facet of the spectacle fairly fresh.
Then, the clothes! Ah, we love the fashion and, if you pay attention, you can walk away with a translatable beauty idea or two. We also, from time to time, enjoy bringing out our Mean Girl schadenfreude by watching someone take a sartorial fall from grace. Yes, no one wants to watch a bunch of lovely starlets in stunning, tasteful haute couture forge an unbroken chain of style-perfection. A little bit of ugly keeps us coming back year-after-year.
Above all, watching the telecast year-in, year-out, even when it stales into boredom or predicability, is just another way for an exceptionally close mother-daughter duo to keep up their bond. The last 3 telecasts have been slightly different:we no longer live in the same city and, as it happens on a Sunday evening, a visit is not practical. We still spend the evening together, watching the show separately but simultaneously, taking notes on anything that catches our fancy, makes us laugh or annoys us, syncing our impressions during the commercials, via phone.
This year the routine was altered further, unexpectedly:my live-in boyfriend, The Chef, off from work early, joined me.He will appreciate me noting that he does not, never has and never will, give a rat's ass about the Oscars. He watched because he was off, he was home, and, as I will not hesitate to mention to anyone reading this, because he has a huge, unapologetic, non-sexual man-crush on this year's host, Hugh Jackman.
He was off, he was home and, while not watching Mr. Jackman in awe and wonderment, he cooked dinner with the ease and skill that I swear only he alone possesses. So, this year's meal was actually, in fact, a meal, instead of a series of appetizers. I contributed dessert, we opened a bottle of wine, mom was on the line and, as fate would have it, a brand-new tradition was born. Here's hoping that the handsome, golden-voiced Aussie hosts next year as well.
The ritual that has outlasted them all, to this day, and with grace and good fortune will stand unbroken for many a year to come, till the as-yet generation has joined us in our revelry, is, of course, the yearly Oscars telecast.We enjoy, as a rule, most of the shows that make up Awards season, from the Emmys to The Golden Globes and BAFTA's. The People's Choice Awards are an exception; apparently we are not of the same mind as 'the people', whoever they may be.
By the time that The Hollywood Foreign Press throws their shindig, we are really geared up. That night is kind of a dry run for what comes a few weeks later. I would aver that the Oscars is like our Super Bowl but that would be markedly sexist and, as I really love football, untrue. Yet we anticipate it with the same sense of fervor and planning, down to the Awards Day Menu, which is usually every bit as fattening, casual and decadent as any Game Day tailgate party.No Oscar glitz and glamour filters down to the cuisine. Nachos, potato-skins,wings or corn dogs, brownies, the sort of caloric gore-fest that you save up for.
The point of watching the awards isn't just as an excuse to chow down on junk food. Other things factor into the celebration as well. Namely, clothing choice and, of course, who wins and who loses. As an ex-acting student and board-treader, the latter always fascinates me, as it would anyone, really, who finds psychological interest in that over-blown popularity contest. The fact that, on occasion, a nerd or new kid in town prevails usually keeps that facet of the spectacle fairly fresh.
Then, the clothes! Ah, we love the fashion and, if you pay attention, you can walk away with a translatable beauty idea or two. We also, from time to time, enjoy bringing out our Mean Girl schadenfreude by watching someone take a sartorial fall from grace. Yes, no one wants to watch a bunch of lovely starlets in stunning, tasteful haute couture forge an unbroken chain of style-perfection. A little bit of ugly keeps us coming back year-after-year.
Above all, watching the telecast year-in, year-out, even when it stales into boredom or predicability, is just another way for an exceptionally close mother-daughter duo to keep up their bond. The last 3 telecasts have been slightly different:we no longer live in the same city and, as it happens on a Sunday evening, a visit is not practical. We still spend the evening together, watching the show separately but simultaneously, taking notes on anything that catches our fancy, makes us laugh or annoys us, syncing our impressions during the commercials, via phone.
This year the routine was altered further, unexpectedly:my live-in boyfriend, The Chef, off from work early, joined me.He will appreciate me noting that he does not, never has and never will, give a rat's ass about the Oscars. He watched because he was off, he was home, and, as I will not hesitate to mention to anyone reading this, because he has a huge, unapologetic, non-sexual man-crush on this year's host, Hugh Jackman.
He was off, he was home and, while not watching Mr. Jackman in awe and wonderment, he cooked dinner with the ease and skill that I swear only he alone possesses. So, this year's meal was actually, in fact, a meal, instead of a series of appetizers. I contributed dessert, we opened a bottle of wine, mom was on the line and, as fate would have it, a brand-new tradition was born. Here's hoping that the handsome, golden-voiced Aussie hosts next year as well.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
An Ode, Two Days Late, in Non-Ode Form, to My Favourite Non-Conformist Oscar Winner (My Apologies Ms. Hepburn):Luise Rainer
Sunday night I was, as I am yearly on this day-of-days, curled up on my couch watching the Oscar telecast. The tradition was altered slightly this time, though quite positively, but that is the subject of a future post. The women and men gliding, strutting, finessing and charming their way down the red carpet and across the stage seemed, to my eyes, a different breed from times past, though the same beast. They were slim, glittering, glowing and as unflawed as perfect gems. There was not a genuine, gut-busting sartorial mis-step except, predictably, where it was expected: I am thinking of you as I type this, Mr. Rourke and Ms. Klum. They came, we saw and were, well, not a mote surprised by his disheveled anti-coif, dog-locket (RIP Loki), and sorry stand-in for a suit. Nor did we bat an eye over her stiffly structured, slightly wacky "Modernist-with-a-capital-M" gown. Even if it is a deviation from what everyone else is wearing, if it is expected, well, then, it's not really a risk, is it?
As I was watching everyone so thin, tanned and tall (although the latter is an illusion of the television cameras, to be sure), I couldn't help but wish that things were a bit messier, a bit less careful, a bit more truly glamorous. A bit more, say, 1929 or 1938. Back when it wasn't taken so seriously, when the women wore a celluloid patina but were, somehow, more individualistic, if only because they played to their own studio-enforced image.
Back then, during The Golden Age of Cinema that dwelt without conflict within the dark heart of the Great Depression, when you were different you were spectacularly different. A horde of publicity flacks couldn't hide it no matter how hard they tried or how much was at stake. That is your cue, Ms. Rainer.
Most people, if they have heard the name at all, are vaguely aware of only a fact or two about her. The first and most obvious being, that she is old. Very, very old. Fewer still may know that, at 99 years and 6 weeks, she is the oldest living Academy Award winner, having been the first to win two performance Oscars. Back-to-back. Take that, Spencer Tracy. Then there is, of course, the curse.
It doesn't exist but that hasn't stopped adherents of Schadenfreude from perpetuating that silliness for nearly 70 years. Her story is the origin of the belief that for many performers, winning an Oscar is career suicide. She blazed onto the Hollywood scene, fresh from the German stage, stooped to making movies, conquered the medium with her double-winning knockout before slinking off to oblivion a few short years later. That sounds more like the plot of a movie than real life.
Luise Rainer was a German-born stage actress, Reinhardt trained. To be Reinhardt-trained was to be seriously good at your craft, as he led all of Europe in stage-craft. She did eventually come to America, still in her twenties, getting her start opposite William Powell, among the cream of the MGM crop. She fell in love with leftist radical playwright Clifford Odets, whose life, character and plays were a particular obsession of my late teenage years. It was keenly unhappy, ending in divorce a few years later. She starred in a handful of big-budget, MGM critic's darlings, winning her statuettes for 'The Great Ziegfeld' (1937) and 'The Good Earth' (1938). The Hollywood career that started in 1935 was effectively over by 1938. She clashed with Louis B. Mayer and, to clash with the big man, while insisting on maintaining her privacy and outsider status, was her career suicide, not winning awards. She made a handful of film and television appearances post-1943 . She settled into a long second marriage which left her widowed 4 decades later.
She has also, over the years, made a handful of Academy Award-related appearances even though she does not, apparently, approve of the process. She was intensely talented and it is to Hollywood's shame and sure regret that it never bothered to showcase even a fraction of that talent. She was beautiful and graceful but did not care about her looks; she was stylish but did not care about trends or even what clothes she wore, yet wore them inexpressibly well, which somehow gives her a modern quality. She has lived a long life, most of it away from movie cameras and prying eyes. Yet she is still here, still fierce, still opinionated and always unapologetic for any mis-steps that she has taken. Mis-steps make a life, so why the hell not?
As I was watching everyone so thin, tanned and tall (although the latter is an illusion of the television cameras, to be sure), I couldn't help but wish that things were a bit messier, a bit less careful, a bit more truly glamorous. A bit more, say, 1929 or 1938. Back when it wasn't taken so seriously, when the women wore a celluloid patina but were, somehow, more individualistic, if only because they played to their own studio-enforced image.
Back then, during The Golden Age of Cinema that dwelt without conflict within the dark heart of the Great Depression, when you were different you were spectacularly different. A horde of publicity flacks couldn't hide it no matter how hard they tried or how much was at stake. That is your cue, Ms. Rainer.
Most people, if they have heard the name at all, are vaguely aware of only a fact or two about her. The first and most obvious being, that she is old. Very, very old. Fewer still may know that, at 99 years and 6 weeks, she is the oldest living Academy Award winner, having been the first to win two performance Oscars. Back-to-back. Take that, Spencer Tracy. Then there is, of course, the curse.
It doesn't exist but that hasn't stopped adherents of Schadenfreude from perpetuating that silliness for nearly 70 years. Her story is the origin of the belief that for many performers, winning an Oscar is career suicide. She blazed onto the Hollywood scene, fresh from the German stage, stooped to making movies, conquered the medium with her double-winning knockout before slinking off to oblivion a few short years later. That sounds more like the plot of a movie than real life.
Luise Rainer was a German-born stage actress, Reinhardt trained. To be Reinhardt-trained was to be seriously good at your craft, as he led all of Europe in stage-craft. She did eventually come to America, still in her twenties, getting her start opposite William Powell, among the cream of the MGM crop. She fell in love with leftist radical playwright Clifford Odets, whose life, character and plays were a particular obsession of my late teenage years. It was keenly unhappy, ending in divorce a few years later. She starred in a handful of big-budget, MGM critic's darlings, winning her statuettes for 'The Great Ziegfeld' (1937) and 'The Good Earth' (1938). The Hollywood career that started in 1935 was effectively over by 1938. She clashed with Louis B. Mayer and, to clash with the big man, while insisting on maintaining her privacy and outsider status, was her career suicide, not winning awards. She made a handful of film and television appearances post-1943 . She settled into a long second marriage which left her widowed 4 decades later.
She has also, over the years, made a handful of Academy Award-related appearances even though she does not, apparently, approve of the process. She was intensely talented and it is to Hollywood's shame and sure regret that it never bothered to showcase even a fraction of that talent. She was beautiful and graceful but did not care about her looks; she was stylish but did not care about trends or even what clothes she wore, yet wore them inexpressibly well, which somehow gives her a modern quality. She has lived a long life, most of it away from movie cameras and prying eyes. Yet she is still here, still fierce, still opinionated and always unapologetic for any mis-steps that she has taken. Mis-steps make a life, so why the hell not?
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