You never know where the surprises are going to come from.
I saw Hitchcocks's "Rear Window" on the big screen for the first time in 2009 and then a second time in 2011. Tonight I saw it again but with two major differences: I was outdoors and I was seeing it with a whole passel of people who hadn't seen it before, much less heard of rear window ethics.
Ever.
During dinner at a nearly empty Garnett's (there was a woman who'd dropped off her youngest at college and was having cake to help her deal with the trauma), I read the New York Times Magazine issue from December 15, 2015 (still not entirely sure why it remains in the reading box nine months later), mainly because the cover story was called "The Lives They Led" and was about obscure and notable people who died last year, so it was kind of fascinating.
And while I'd read that singer Leslie Gore of "It's My Party" fame was gay, I'd had no clue so many of her songs were about feeling like an outsider because of it.
I'd had no idea that there was a woman known as "Dust Lady" because of a haunting photograph taken shortly after the towers fell on September 11.
Or heard of Lee Israel, a two-bit writer who apparently faked a slew of correspondence by notable dead writers, a scam that led to a book deal about her literary thievery.
All dead now.
Showing my server a '60s photo of a mother and son sitting on a NYC stoop, a lit cigarette in her hand, I commented that you'd never see an image like that today and she agreed. "There's a simplicity to that that doesn't exist anymore. If they did it now, it would be so much more staged looking, so much less natural" she was sure.
Okay and there would also not be a cigarette in her hand.
Dessert consisted of a stranger's leftover frosting (she thinks icing is too sweet) and by the time I left, every seat was filled except mine. And despite everyone having someone with them, I made sure to return the magazine to the box in case others needed dinner company like I had.
Then I went undercover with the Baptists, as I do every August for their Classics in the Courtyard series. Just another heathen in a folding chair at First Baptist.
Trying to look unassuming, I began setting up my chair in the second row, only to have a woman ask me if I was with the James River Hikers. I admitted I wasn't, not sure if I needed to move my chair. She let me stay after I shared that I walk multiple miles every day.
The film had barely begun - Jimmy Stewart's window shades were just starting to roll up and Hitch had not yet cut to one of the many shots of the thermometer showing 90+ degrees - when I overheard a guy behind me ask, "Is this a murder mystery or a love story?" to which his friend replied, "Kind of both."
Kind of superfluous was the captioning, which I had to assume was on in case people couldn't hear all the dialog, but I'm pretty sure everyone there could hear the foghorns, whistles and cars beeping, so why did the captions need to show that inane information, too? It was just annoying.
It was not only an ideal summer flick, but a pretty great outdoor movie with all its references to heat. Beads of perspiration on Jimmy's face. A couple sleeping on their balcony. A composer mopping his studio in his boxers. Everyone's open windows.
As always happens when you're screening outdoors, the world becomes part of the experience. A cool breeze picked up just as it began raining onscreen and ended when it stopped.
As unfortunately also happens, glitches gum up the viewing. When the woman screams because she's discovered her little dog has been strangled, the screen froze, as if in horror.
Once we could have handled, but it kept happening, causing repeated pauses to correct it. Behind me, the "Rear Window" virgins were salivating to find out what was going to happen next.
Since I already knew that much, I focused on admiring the freeze frames of Grace Kelly, each one of which was utterly gorgeous, no matter where the frame settled.
All the starting and stopping was making for running commentary from behind, as in, "No, no, Lisa, get out of there!" when she was trapped in the murderer's apartment, or the clueless guy who saw Jimmy grabbing his camera bag for flashbulbs and whispered, "I hope he has a gun!"
Truly, I was amazed to hear so many people commenting as if this was their first time watching "Rear Window." How is that even possible in a crowd that definitely skewed pre-MTV?
When our hero mentioned needing a drink, the guy behind me said, "I need a drink, too. This is too much suspense!" Cover blown.
Not likely to happen with this crowd, friend. In any case, tonight proved that you haven't seen Hitchcock until you've seen it with the Baptists...and a few covert heathens.
And, yes, there will always be suspense.
Showing posts with label classics in the courtyard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label classics in the courtyard. Show all posts
Friday, August 26, 2016
Friday, August 29, 2014
Take Five
Some nights are all about the simple pleasures.
I set out to check out L'Oppossum, eager to see how the former Pescado's China Street had been transformed.
When I expressed my preference for the bar over a table, the two gentlemen at the host stand assured me that the bartender would be friendly.
That was an understatement. He not only recognized me from eons ago, but even inquired about a mutual friend of ours.
There's really no escaping your past in this town.
Settling into the end stool, the first thing I noticed was all the interesting art on the wall interspersed with "Star Wars" plates. Behind the bar, I spotted a stuffed possum and a painting of Nick Cave.
It was a pleasure to see a restaurant that bore no resemblance to the current restaurant decor trend.
The second was the music, everything from Helen Reddy to the Delfonics "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time) with nary a cliched indie tune to be heard. Absolutely delightful.
The trio nearest me at the bar were soon replaced with the casually dressed director of the VMFA and his wife about the time my pale pink glass of fresh and fruity La Galope Rose Comte arrived.
I was told they'd sold out of nine bottles the first night they were open. Could it be that we are finally becoming a Rose town? Be still, my heart.
Apparently the director and his wife had been there before because I heard her tell the bartender that they were positively smitten with the place, rating it their new favorite.
Since it was my first visit, the menu was a blank slate to me so I began with the obvious: the el dorado low rider, a lobster taco with tomatillo sauce and decadent guacamole.
While there was the option to add the chef's surprise, I opted out of adding tonight's surprise of foie gras, not really needing my arteries to close down before Labor day.
Once I opened the conversational door by inquiring about the about music, the bartender boldly walked through, providing endless opinions and observations about music past and present.
I admire a man who appreciates a good pop song, no matter the genre.
We covered his first show (the Kinks), his thoughts on Television's first album, his recommendation of Comasat Angels and memories of early Cure.
At one point, a man came to the bar, credit card in hand, to order a beer. Seems he'd ordered a beer from his server at the table, but hadn't the patience to wait for it to arrive.
"I need a beer now," he clarified. "I'll still drink the one the server brings me." Off he went, beer in hand.
Man, that's some serious jonesing for a beer, friend.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was being asked what I wanted next. His suggestion was to get something I wouldn't want to share in case my next visit involved a companion.
Good thinking. I ordered escargots a la ham biscuit, which was exactly what it sounds like: a plate of escargot (and greens) with a ham biscuit adorned with, that's right, an escargot.
Proving I am my Richmond grandmother's granddaughter, I pulled off a piece of biscuit, slathered it with butter and devoured it to assess the biscuit worthiness.
Before long, it was just me at the bar, leaving the bartender to make drinks for tables and in between, chat with me.
About how Wilco started out aping Gram Parsons. How 20-somethings don't even know who Gram Parsons or the Flying Burrito Brothers are. About what pop gems the Strokes wrote.
I considered death by chocolate, but instead had another glass of Rose to accompany the music talk.
After anticipating a quick, solo meal, I'd been having such a terrific time talking with my fellow music lover, I'd completely lost track of time. Hours had passed and I now had somewhere to be.
Of all the unlikely places, it was with the Baptists. Just don't tell them I'd been imbibing.
I arrived at the courtyard at First Baptist on Monument, already knowing the drill for how this works.
Although tonight was the first of this year's courtyard classics I'd attended (and none last year because they were all cartoon movies), I've seen plenty of movies in the shadow of this church during other hot August nights.
Out host made sure everyone who wanted popcorn had gotten some because, he said, movies are more palatable when you're eating popcorn.
After a prayer of thanks for the nice breeze (I abstained), we were on to a 1954 MGM cartoon called "Dixieland Droopy" about a dog (a beagle, perhaps?) named John Irving Pettybone who loves Dixieland music.
Only problem is no one else does so he keeps getting kicked out of places like the "Good Rumor Ice Cream" truck for playing his Dixieland record.
After the record is broken, he lucks out by having a flea band take up residence in his tail and play non-stop Dixieland.
It was hysterical when the dog tells the flea band to "take five" and they hop off his back and approach some smoldering butts on the street, puffing away during their break and then going back to play.
Thus warmed up, we moved on to the main feature, a Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz classic called "The Long, Long Trailer."
Taking place in the pre-interstate era (1954), the story follows the newlyweds as they buy a trailer and car in which to honeymoon and then live happily ever after.
In a nod to the crowd, it had subtitles so you didn't have to listen too hard to understand the dialog.
Since I spent a good part of my childhood watching reruns of "I Love Lucy," I expected this to be similar so I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.
That said, their character names were Tacy and Nicky, but we'll let that slide.
But here Nicky was an engineer (not a bandleader) and Tacy wasn't quite as zany, unless you count hoarding rocks for the future garden she planned to plant once they arrived in Colorado, their goal.
It was very '50s, of course, with Tacy (frequently in hat and gloves) lobbying hard for the trailer purchase (by the way $5,345) so that, "No matter where were are, I could make home for you."
Aww, how sweetly Eisenhower years is that?
And speaking of that, all the roads were two lanes, policemen directed traffic at intersections and parking lots cost fifty cents.
While it wasn't "I Love Lucy," there was still plenty of physical humor such as Nicky hilariously fighting with the trailer shower head and Tacy trying to make a fancy dinner while the trailer is being pulled.
When she tells Nicky she's making beef ragout and a Cesar salad, he says he'll get out the Roquefort.
"Only boors use Roquefort," she corrects him. "Everyone knows it's Parmesan." Did everyone know that in 1954?
There's even a too cutesy scene of the two of them motoring along, Tacy stretched out on the giant bench seat of their Lincoln convertible, singing a song called "Breezin' Along."
That's how you know they're in love.
Well, that and Nicky says, "You could make me happy living in a cave." Doubtful, but we got his point.
The climax comes when they have to go over an 8,000 foot mountain and Nicky tells Tacy to jettison all the stuff she's been collecting, which of course she doesn't do.
During scenes of the trailer being pulled along high, narrow roads on the edge of a cliff, the crowd around me got vocal.
"Oh, my word!"
"Uh oh!"
"No, no, she's in trouble now!"
When the clouds are the ceiling in your outdoor movie theater, I guess it's just fine to talk to the characters in a fifty year old movie.
I didn't, but I'd also unexpectedly spent a whole lot of conversation at dinner, maybe all I had for the evening.
Doubtful, but you get my point.
I set out to check out L'Oppossum, eager to see how the former Pescado's China Street had been transformed.
When I expressed my preference for the bar over a table, the two gentlemen at the host stand assured me that the bartender would be friendly.
That was an understatement. He not only recognized me from eons ago, but even inquired about a mutual friend of ours.
There's really no escaping your past in this town.
Settling into the end stool, the first thing I noticed was all the interesting art on the wall interspersed with "Star Wars" plates. Behind the bar, I spotted a stuffed possum and a painting of Nick Cave.
It was a pleasure to see a restaurant that bore no resemblance to the current restaurant decor trend.
The second was the music, everything from Helen Reddy to the Delfonics "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time) with nary a cliched indie tune to be heard. Absolutely delightful.
The trio nearest me at the bar were soon replaced with the casually dressed director of the VMFA and his wife about the time my pale pink glass of fresh and fruity La Galope Rose Comte arrived.
I was told they'd sold out of nine bottles the first night they were open. Could it be that we are finally becoming a Rose town? Be still, my heart.
Apparently the director and his wife had been there before because I heard her tell the bartender that they were positively smitten with the place, rating it their new favorite.
Since it was my first visit, the menu was a blank slate to me so I began with the obvious: the el dorado low rider, a lobster taco with tomatillo sauce and decadent guacamole.
While there was the option to add the chef's surprise, I opted out of adding tonight's surprise of foie gras, not really needing my arteries to close down before Labor day.
Once I opened the conversational door by inquiring about the about music, the bartender boldly walked through, providing endless opinions and observations about music past and present.
I admire a man who appreciates a good pop song, no matter the genre.
We covered his first show (the Kinks), his thoughts on Television's first album, his recommendation of Comasat Angels and memories of early Cure.
At one point, a man came to the bar, credit card in hand, to order a beer. Seems he'd ordered a beer from his server at the table, but hadn't the patience to wait for it to arrive.
"I need a beer now," he clarified. "I'll still drink the one the server brings me." Off he went, beer in hand.
Man, that's some serious jonesing for a beer, friend.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was being asked what I wanted next. His suggestion was to get something I wouldn't want to share in case my next visit involved a companion.
Good thinking. I ordered escargots a la ham biscuit, which was exactly what it sounds like: a plate of escargot (and greens) with a ham biscuit adorned with, that's right, an escargot.
Proving I am my Richmond grandmother's granddaughter, I pulled off a piece of biscuit, slathered it with butter and devoured it to assess the biscuit worthiness.
Before long, it was just me at the bar, leaving the bartender to make drinks for tables and in between, chat with me.
About how Wilco started out aping Gram Parsons. How 20-somethings don't even know who Gram Parsons or the Flying Burrito Brothers are. About what pop gems the Strokes wrote.
I considered death by chocolate, but instead had another glass of Rose to accompany the music talk.
After anticipating a quick, solo meal, I'd been having such a terrific time talking with my fellow music lover, I'd completely lost track of time. Hours had passed and I now had somewhere to be.
Of all the unlikely places, it was with the Baptists. Just don't tell them I'd been imbibing.
I arrived at the courtyard at First Baptist on Monument, already knowing the drill for how this works.
Although tonight was the first of this year's courtyard classics I'd attended (and none last year because they were all cartoon movies), I've seen plenty of movies in the shadow of this church during other hot August nights.
Out host made sure everyone who wanted popcorn had gotten some because, he said, movies are more palatable when you're eating popcorn.
After a prayer of thanks for the nice breeze (I abstained), we were on to a 1954 MGM cartoon called "Dixieland Droopy" about a dog (a beagle, perhaps?) named John Irving Pettybone who loves Dixieland music.
Only problem is no one else does so he keeps getting kicked out of places like the "Good Rumor Ice Cream" truck for playing his Dixieland record.
After the record is broken, he lucks out by having a flea band take up residence in his tail and play non-stop Dixieland.
It was hysterical when the dog tells the flea band to "take five" and they hop off his back and approach some smoldering butts on the street, puffing away during their break and then going back to play.
Thus warmed up, we moved on to the main feature, a Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz classic called "The Long, Long Trailer."
Taking place in the pre-interstate era (1954), the story follows the newlyweds as they buy a trailer and car in which to honeymoon and then live happily ever after.
In a nod to the crowd, it had subtitles so you didn't have to listen too hard to understand the dialog.
Since I spent a good part of my childhood watching reruns of "I Love Lucy," I expected this to be similar so I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.
That said, their character names were Tacy and Nicky, but we'll let that slide.
But here Nicky was an engineer (not a bandleader) and Tacy wasn't quite as zany, unless you count hoarding rocks for the future garden she planned to plant once they arrived in Colorado, their goal.
It was very '50s, of course, with Tacy (frequently in hat and gloves) lobbying hard for the trailer purchase (by the way $5,345) so that, "No matter where were are, I could make home for you."
Aww, how sweetly Eisenhower years is that?
And speaking of that, all the roads were two lanes, policemen directed traffic at intersections and parking lots cost fifty cents.
While it wasn't "I Love Lucy," there was still plenty of physical humor such as Nicky hilariously fighting with the trailer shower head and Tacy trying to make a fancy dinner while the trailer is being pulled.
When she tells Nicky she's making beef ragout and a Cesar salad, he says he'll get out the Roquefort.
"Only boors use Roquefort," she corrects him. "Everyone knows it's Parmesan." Did everyone know that in 1954?
There's even a too cutesy scene of the two of them motoring along, Tacy stretched out on the giant bench seat of their Lincoln convertible, singing a song called "Breezin' Along."
That's how you know they're in love.
Well, that and Nicky says, "You could make me happy living in a cave." Doubtful, but we got his point.
During scenes of the trailer being pulled along high, narrow roads on the edge of a cliff, the crowd around me got vocal.
"Oh, my word!"
"Uh oh!"
"No, no, she's in trouble now!"
When the clouds are the ceiling in your outdoor movie theater, I guess it's just fine to talk to the characters in a fifty year old movie.
I didn't, but I'd also unexpectedly spent a whole lot of conversation at dinner, maybe all I had for the evening.
Doubtful, but you get my point.
Friday, August 31, 2012
A Lucky Cuss
Some enchanted evening, you may meet a stranger who offers to steal from a church.
In this case, the church was First Baptist and the problem was in the ladies' room.
There was no toilet paper.
Not in the stall or in the cabinet or drawers, not anywhere.
As an older woman and I scoured the bathroom, another woman walked in and discovered our dilemma.
"Is this your church?" she asked me, clearly unable to see that I was a heathen.
Nope, I told her.
"Mine, either," she smiled. "So I'll go to the other bathroom and steal some."
That's just how Christians roll, I guess.
After making do with hand towels, I returned to my seat and my friend only to find the overture had begun.
Tonight was the final night of the "Classics in the Courtyard" series and the big finale was "South Pacific," which I'd seen as a play twice, but never the movie.
Leave it to Hollywood to cast an Italian as a Frenchman.
I happen to know for a fact that they're not interchangeable, although a Frenchman once told me that if I couldn't find a good man from southern France, an Italian would do.
The movie's credits included thanking the Department of Defense, the Navy and the Pacific Fleet, although even after seeing the film, I still don't know what they did.
I always enjoy the period details of mid-century films, things like the pilot of the plane smoking a cigar in the cockpit as he dodges Japanese gunfire.
"South Pacific" was made in 1958, back when men still called women dames.
Nothing else was built the same
Nothing in the world
As the soft and wavy frame
Like the silhouette of a dame
There is absolutely nothing like the frame of a dame!
And back when we named their hips.
Her hair is blond and curly
Her curls are hurly burly
Her lips are pips
I call her hips "Twirly" and "Whirly"
A scene that got an unexpected response from the crowd dealt with age.
When Lt. Cable.learns Nelly is in love with Emile, he says, "That's hard to believe, sir. They tell me he's a middle-aged man."
The captain, himself past fifty, is not amused, shooting back, "Cable, it is a common mistake for boys of your age and athletic ability to underestimate men who have reached their maturity."
The mostly middle-aged and older audience found this hilarious, laughing out loud throughout the entire scene.
Mitzi Gaynor was adorable as Nelly and her very 1950s body with a tiny waist, curvy hips and thighs would look completely out of place by today's standards.
Curves aside, she knew how to play a small-town girl believably.
I'm as corny as Kansas in August
I'm as normal as blueberry pie
No more a smart little girl with no heart
I have found me a wonderful guy
And her point to Emile for why they were attracted to each other was one that resonated with this viewer.
"We're the same. We appreciate things. We get excited about things. We're not blase."
Like a lot of fifties movies, this one had its share of political incorrectness.
The scene where Bloody Mary brings the lieutenant to a hut to meet her teen-aged daughter smacked of something uncomfortably inappropriate, which the songwriters must have realized, necessitating the cheery "Happy Talk."
Talk about the boy saying to the girl
Golly, baby, I'm a lucky cuss
Talk about the girl saying to the boy
You and me is lucky to be us
Likewise, only Rodgers and Hammerstein could write a song about how prejudice is learned.
You've got to be taught before it's too late
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught
Because I'd been to two previous musicals of the series, by tonight I was a pro.
I brought candy to share with my girlfriend.
I was charmed rather than annoyed when a bird began flying around behind the screen, casting its shadow on the movie.
And when the explosions began, I immediately knew they were from the fireworks at the Diamond and not nearby gunfire, as some people had worried when it happened the first night.
So I finally got to see "South Pacific" on the big screen and under a nearly full moon.
Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing
You may hear her laughing
Across a crowded room
And night after night
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams
I must be as normal as blueberry pie to have enjoyed "South Pacific" in all its corny and un-PC glory.
But there's nothing like a dame who relishes a good love story about a middle-aged man.
Or even a cock-eyed optimist who wants to sit in a church courtyard at night with strangers.
She may not be younger than springtime, but she did remember the Milk Duds.
In this case, the church was First Baptist and the problem was in the ladies' room.
There was no toilet paper.
Not in the stall or in the cabinet or drawers, not anywhere.
As an older woman and I scoured the bathroom, another woman walked in and discovered our dilemma.
"Is this your church?" she asked me, clearly unable to see that I was a heathen.
Nope, I told her.
"Mine, either," she smiled. "So I'll go to the other bathroom and steal some."
That's just how Christians roll, I guess.
After making do with hand towels, I returned to my seat and my friend only to find the overture had begun.
Tonight was the final night of the "Classics in the Courtyard" series and the big finale was "South Pacific," which I'd seen as a play twice, but never the movie.
Leave it to Hollywood to cast an Italian as a Frenchman.
I happen to know for a fact that they're not interchangeable, although a Frenchman once told me that if I couldn't find a good man from southern France, an Italian would do.
The movie's credits included thanking the Department of Defense, the Navy and the Pacific Fleet, although even after seeing the film, I still don't know what they did.
I always enjoy the period details of mid-century films, things like the pilot of the plane smoking a cigar in the cockpit as he dodges Japanese gunfire.
"South Pacific" was made in 1958, back when men still called women dames.
Nothing else was built the same
Nothing in the world
As the soft and wavy frame
Like the silhouette of a dame
There is absolutely nothing like the frame of a dame!
And back when we named their hips.
Her hair is blond and curly
Her curls are hurly burly
Her lips are pips
I call her hips "Twirly" and "Whirly"
A scene that got an unexpected response from the crowd dealt with age.
When Lt. Cable.learns Nelly is in love with Emile, he says, "That's hard to believe, sir. They tell me he's a middle-aged man."
The captain, himself past fifty, is not amused, shooting back, "Cable, it is a common mistake for boys of your age and athletic ability to underestimate men who have reached their maturity."
The mostly middle-aged and older audience found this hilarious, laughing out loud throughout the entire scene.
Mitzi Gaynor was adorable as Nelly and her very 1950s body with a tiny waist, curvy hips and thighs would look completely out of place by today's standards.
Curves aside, she knew how to play a small-town girl believably.
I'm as corny as Kansas in August
I'm as normal as blueberry pie
No more a smart little girl with no heart
I have found me a wonderful guy
And her point to Emile for why they were attracted to each other was one that resonated with this viewer.
"We're the same. We appreciate things. We get excited about things. We're not blase."
Like a lot of fifties movies, this one had its share of political incorrectness.
The scene where Bloody Mary brings the lieutenant to a hut to meet her teen-aged daughter smacked of something uncomfortably inappropriate, which the songwriters must have realized, necessitating the cheery "Happy Talk."
Talk about the boy saying to the girl
Golly, baby, I'm a lucky cuss
Talk about the girl saying to the boy
You and me is lucky to be us
Likewise, only Rodgers and Hammerstein could write a song about how prejudice is learned.
You've got to be taught before it's too late
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You've got to be carefully taught
Because I'd been to two previous musicals of the series, by tonight I was a pro.
I brought candy to share with my girlfriend.
I was charmed rather than annoyed when a bird began flying around behind the screen, casting its shadow on the movie.
And when the explosions began, I immediately knew they were from the fireworks at the Diamond and not nearby gunfire, as some people had worried when it happened the first night.
So I finally got to see "South Pacific" on the big screen and under a nearly full moon.
Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing
You may hear her laughing
Across a crowded room
And night after night
As strange as it seems
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams
I must be as normal as blueberry pie to have enjoyed "South Pacific" in all its corny and un-PC glory.
But there's nothing like a dame who relishes a good love story about a middle-aged man.
Or even a cock-eyed optimist who wants to sit in a church courtyard at night with strangers.
She may not be younger than springtime, but she did remember the Milk Duds.
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