HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN THIS MONTH

Trick or drought!

If you live anywhere other than New York, you probably think we're all a bunch of libtard, kombucha-swilling activists continually griping about climate change. But believe me, we're actually bunch of libtard, kombucha-swilling phonies. Because all I've been hearing since the middle of August is, "Oh! I love this weather!" 

And who wouldn't love the perpetual sunshine, temperatures in the mid-70s, and rainfall that's been measured in the tenths of inches for three months? All we need is a colony of seals barking away off Battery Park and it would be like living in San Diego. 

Our idea of a
brush fire.

Folks like me who started getting emails with "red flag" warnings two months ago regarding low humidity and the occasional wind gusts leading to brush fires chuckled and shook our heads.  Brush fires? In Manhattan? The city that single-handedly keeps the cement industry alive?  

That was until two weeks ago when, upon waking up in the middle of the night, I smelled smoke in our apartment. Not wanting to die before receiving volume two of the restored Laurel & Hardy silent movies I shelled out 45 bucks for, I got up to inspect our living quarters, hoping to remember where we put our fire extinguisher.

The odor continued into the living room and kitchen. No sirens outside, though, or flames across the street. Shrugging it off as the smell of the heat rising through the pipes, I went to bed. By the morning, our domicile had returned to the fading aroma of the previous evening's dinner.

Only there really had been a fire. And yes, a brush fire, across the Hudson River in the Palisades of New Jersey, where an Easterly wind had blown smoke several miles into our neighborhood.

Those damn homeless encampments ruin
everything.

OK, so there was a brush fire -- a rather large one, admittedly -- in New Jersey, not New York. I'm not even sure what Palisades are, yet I know we don't have them here. But what we do have is Brooklyn, home of Prospect Park, where a brush fire, courtesy of a homeless encampment, started burning a few days later. This time, the wind blew West over the East River for another week or so. 

That was followed a few days later by a brush fire on 155th Street and the Harlem River in the Bronx. A brush fire -- in the Bronx? There's never a boring moment here. Why, just yesterday, New York was officially declared in a drought situation. 

Since the Jersey fire, there's hardly been a day when our Manhattan apartment hasn't smelled like a campsite. The inch of rain coming our way late tonight into tomorrow morning is expected to curb the brush fires at least temporarily. That's a good thing for the FDNY, but a shame for the rest of us who want the camping experience without leaving home.

And if you're wondering, the Laurel & Hardy restorations are worth the money. Those guys are funny as all get-out when they're not starting brush fires.

                                                           ****************

THE AGE OF NONSENSE

When recently asked which directors she'd like to work with, Nicole Kidman mentioned Martin Scorsese, pointlessly adding, "If he does a film with women." Kidman must think the "Me Too" movement means "Hire Me Too."

Would a guy who looks like your grandfather
care about that "toxic masculinity" crap?

Attempted intimidation of a movie legend isn't the best way to land a role, especially when the intimidation has zero basis in fact. Kidman must have missed Killers of the Flower Moon, where Lily Gladstone earned an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe. Winona Ryder can boast the same for The Age of Innocence. 

Want more? Ellen Burstyn and Diane Ladd, the stars of Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, were both nominated for Oscars (the former won), and they were both nominated for Golden Globes. Jodie Foster received an Oscar nomination for Taxi Driver (although, being only 14, maybe she doesn't count), as did Cathy Moriarty for Raging Bull.  And while Sarah Bernard didn't win anything for her performance in Scorsese's After Hours, it was her only memorable movie role. Same with Cybill Shepard in Taxi Driver. 

Get the picture? Kidman's stab at proving alleged celluloid misogyny is not only misplaced (a nice word for "fabricated") but insulting to women who face authentic sexism (and abuse) every day.  

Being rich and beautiful and having a successful
career and husband and three lovely daughters
just isn't enough for some people. They have to
work with one particular director to feel fulfilled.

While she appears to have gotten no support from any actress regarding her comment, all of them would give up an appointment with their plastic surgeon to work with Martin Scorsese. Very few of them will have the chance for one very, very simple reason: they aren't right for the role. Not even the Emmy/Golden Globe/ Oscar/BAFTA-winning Nicole Kidman. (Does that make her an EGOB?). 

Maybe "if he does a film with women" was merely an attempt at humor that didn't quite land. You know how most actors are without a script. But I think Kidman decided a little late to show her solidarity with real victims (if I may use that now reviled word) of show business -- or any business -- and fell flat on her photogenic face.

Nicole Kidman has starred in plenty of fine movies and TV miniseries and has been well paid for her efforts. She should enjoy her great good fortune -- the kind most people, men or women, will never experience. So Nicole, next time you see Scorsese at a Hollywood event, shake his hand and thank him for his contribution to the movie industry. Then ask Spike Lee why he hasn't hired you for any project yet. I'm sure he'll be happy to explain. 

                                                          ***************

DEATH OF THE BLUES

All that money spent on patriotic American flags
-- for nothing.

If you ever wondered how sincere news pundits really are, you only had to listen to them the morning after the election. For weeks, they were crowing how smooth the Kamala Harris campaign was running, the way she and her team were nailing Trump to the wall with a thousand and one hammers, how perfect it was that she became the nominee only days before the convention -- no chance to get tired of her! It was there for all to see if you looked hard enough: the American People (®) were on her side.

In Joe's case, literally finger-pointing.

These same pundits had barely woken up from their Harris hangover when knives
were drawn and fingers pointed. How did the Democrats screw this up so badly? Didn't they realize voters weren't buying what they were selling? Why didn't Democrats know that she had too small a window to campaign? It's as if these geniuses had suddenly realized that a "fun" convention, JD Vance couch jokes, and Taylor Smith's endorsement didn't necessarily translate to landslide victory. And the way they crowed about it, the latter must have been a real shocker.

Makes you wonder if Ann Selzer was a GOP
operative.

Yet the most-asked question was How did the polls get it so wrong? You mean the polls
that said Trump had at least a 50% chance of winning? Those polls? Like, all of them? No wonder why Democrats glommed onto the  Friday night-before-the-election press release by the-never-wrong-gosh-darn-it Ann Selzer that had Harris up by three points in Iowa, and was guaranteed to win the race. No, my friends, the polls didn't have it wrong. That poll had it wrong. 

Not all Trump voters are Nazis, but -- oh, you
know the rest.

Perhaps this "shocking" outcome wasn't shocking to wised-up voters (hey, that's me!) who, despite desiring a different outcome, could never quite shake the feeling that the majority of Americans --or at least American voters -- have cozied up to the idea of living under an autocratic theocracy as long as the "theo" part isn't Muslim, and that the Dear Leader would like to get rid of at least two TV networks. These people mulled over the choices on Election Day and said, "Hm. Yes, I'll take some of that, please. With a bag of Cheetos, if you don't mind." And I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free -- to get rid of everything that makes me free...

"At last! I'm not the only woman to lose the
election!"

It's become a cliche of a cliche that Democrats know how to rob defeat from the jaws of victory. I'd say they're what Republicans were until November 5: a party that preferred to go over the cliff with their flags flying because they wanted to stand for something, no matter how inane. And what Democrats stand for today is losing like a drunk in a Vegas casino at three in the morning. 

And to show you what a sap I am, they had me believing we had a chance of winning the presidency and at least one of the chambers of Congress. Instead, the only chamber they won was inside a loaded .45 they pointed at their own heads. The Lincoln Project can look forward to another four years of making hard-hitting commercials that won't move the dial.

If even half of what Democrats have been warning us will happen under a second Trump administration comes to be -- and, with the GOP controlling Congress, why wouldn't it? -- I can once again return to my no-news policy that started to fray on October 7 of last year, and completely ripped apart on the day when Trump was almost assassinated. You should try it, you'll feel better. Avoiding the news, I mean, not taking out the president.

Suddenly, Republicans have no problem with
bilingual instructions.

A friendly piece of advice to Democrats: caring more about the price of bacon than codifying the drag queen story hour for kindergarteners doesn't automatically make one a homophobe or unaware that inflation has dropped. Too, the idea that making Puerto Rico and Washington, D.C. states because you'll get new, er, colorful voters is no longer a given. Just check the stats. And getting rid of the Electoral College as you've demanded wouldn't have helped you this year, either. 

Better get going now if you want to run in 2028.

Way back when Howard Dean was the chairman of the DNC, one of his missions was to
was to make Democrats competitive in all 50 states. Good idea, that. Problem was, it meant candidates visiting red states and not just talking to people but listening as well, preferably in diners that served greasy cheeseburgers and bars where people drank Schlitz on tap. Explaining why your ideas are better than those of Republicans in easy-to-understand words without flowcharts, college degrees or heavy sighs. What used to be called retail politics. 

The overwhelming response from his party was laughter. How's your response working out for you now? 

Here's how: y

Lorne Michaels' hands aren't clean, either.
 

ou've lost the working class to a billionaire who would like to eliminate their overtime pay, cut Medicare and Social Security, and whose unofficial choice to handle the budget (Elon Musk, another billionaire) has admitted that his proposals, combined with Trump's mass deportation, would cause a world-wide economic "storm" and a stock market crash. 

When that happens, your former base still won't vote for you because Republicans will convince them it was all your fault because you gave up on them. And they won't be entirely wrong. At least the GOP pretends to care, even as they stick the shiv in their working-class backs. 

                                                                   ********

THE BIG ROTTEN APPLE

 While today is Election Day, it's never too early to look forward to the next time we go the polls. Unless you're a New Yorker like me. Then you just want to take a 14-month nap.

Stuff like accepting bribes from from foreigners.

Our current mayor, Eric "Turkey Isn't Just for Thanksgiving" Adams, isn't letting a minor predicament like his upcoming corruption trial stop him from announcing his intention to run for re-election. Unlike his predecessor Bill de Blasio -- who at least gave us the East River Ferry, an invaluable shuttle for us way-over-on-East-Side residents -- I can't think of a damn thing Adams has to run on. Unless you count opening the Turkish consulate without proper safety inspections. (Anyone who willingly works for authoritarian governments deserve what they get.)  

Cuomo demonstrates his hands-on
style with women.

Andrew Cuomo saw his decision to consider running for mayor as an opportunity to return to his occupation of choice: a political leader disliked by Democrats and Republicans for his angry rhetoric, hamfisted style, egotistical demeanor, and overall petty arrogance. Yet it was his reputed sexual shenanigans -- all unwanted by the women he set his sights on -- is what finally cost him the governorship of New York state. (See, women, you do have the power!) Perhaps he believes enough time has passed that people have forgotten his transgressions. And even if they haven't, he can always remind them that, unlike Donald Trump, he didn't rape a woman in a Macy's dressing room. 

Remember, Rudy, a lot of pressure comes with
the job.

At this point, anyone would be a better choice, particularly if it was a former, highly respected mayor. Like Michael Bloomberg, a Republican who was elected to three terms in cobalt blue New York. But life being life, it's Rudy Giuliani instead who's floated the idea that he is ready to occupy Gracie Mansion instead of Sing-Sing, despite having more criminal charges, indictments, felonies, and guilty charges than I did girlfriends before getting married. His reasoning? "If you don't have a Republican or independent mayor, you will have corruption in City Hall." I forgot what a sense of humor Rudy has!

So, no matter what your political affiliation, spare a thought for New York voters today. Because whether your candidate of choice becomes president or not, next year we in the Greatest City In The World will likely have the Worst Candidates In The Galaxy. Mike Bloomberg, save us!

                                                              ***********

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 43

 One German silent movie + three short subjects = two hours of celluloid bliss.

THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE (1913): The poor, lovesick title character named Balduin is given a bag of money and the woman of his dreams, Countess Margit, by a mysterious stranger named Scapinelli. In return, Scapinelli is to take anything in the student's apartment. Sounds like a good deal -- until the guy steals Balduin's reflection from his full-length mirror. Things start getting even more hinky when the reflection starts turning up everywhere in town, even to kill Margit's fiancé in a duel. Getting a little tired of seeing himself everywhere but mirrors, Balduin shoots him (it?), not foreseeing the consequences for both of them. And as for Scapinelli? He just dances down the road for his next victim.

It's a fool's game to refer to a movie as "the first" in almost any category. So when web jockeys casually refer to The Student of Prague as the "first horror movie" and the "first German art film", take it with a sack full of salt and a side of fries. Nevertheless, The Student of Prague has a lot of good going for it, like the story itself, seeing that it's an interesting take on the Satan-taking-a-soul routine (even if Scapinelli is described as a sorcerer). And for a 1913 production, the double exposures of the two Balduins onscreen simultaneously are surprisingly effective. (The shot of his reflection leaving the mirror as he looks on in horror is one of the more memorable images I've seen in a silent fantasy.)  I'm not sure of the purpose of a Gypsy dancer named Lyduschka popping in and out like a wanna-be spy but she's certainly spooky that way.

Onto the negatives. Co-directors Hans Heinz Ewers and Stellan Rye hold almost every shot too long. And, at 39 (but looking 50), Paul Wegener doesn't look anything like a college student. While Gret Berger, as Margrit, was only 30, she's supposed to be a decade younger but appears to be middle-aged. As usual for the time, both actors chow down on the scenery -- Wegener doesn't react to situations as much as allow the top of his head fly off. Only John Gottowt as Scapinelli, taking delight in Balduin's destruction, gives a truly entertaining performance -- but isn't the bad guy always the best part? The 1926 remake of The Student of Prague starring Conrad Veidt is said to be better, but the original has its charms -- as well as a reminder that if a deal is too good to be true, you're never going to see your reflection again.

BONUS POINTS: Immediately following the opening credits, Paul Wegener and Student of Prague director/writer are seen as themselves visiting Prague, although why is never explained.

POETIC GEMS: THE OLD PROSPECTOR TALKS (1931): It's always a treat to
discover a series of short subjects you never knew existed. Then there's Poetic Gems. 

Produced by someone named William M. Pizor, Poetic Gems appear to have been focused on the works recited by seventh-graders at school assemblies until Bob Dylan blew up that crap but good. Pizor was clearly obsessed with the defiantly middlebrow "People's Poet" Edgar A. Guest -- well-loved in his day by Americans who probably considered Norman Rockwell an abstract artist -- since at least seven of the alleged "gems" in this series were from the poet's hackneyed hand.

The title alone, The Old Prospector Talks, warns that you're about to sit through ten minutes of twaddle, made even twaddler when recited by radio announcer Norman Brokenshire with the gravity of Laurence Olivier reading aloud from The Bible. "I've taken my gold with pick and pan/And sent it back to be stained by man"... Oh, brother. No wonder Guest was able to churn out a poem a day for 30 years like so much sausage. Each line is painstakingly recreated visually with a progressively grizzled prospector, aging before our eyes as he pans for gold, walks his donkey, smokes a pipe -- everything but take a leak in the outhouse behind his rundown shack.

Puerile poetry isn't enough to sustain even a one-reeler, so the tune "Take Me Home to the Mountain", composed for The Old Prospector Talks, is performed by Al Shayne, who should have lost his credentials as "The Radio Ambassador of Song" after the first verse. Accompanied by a queasy marimba, Shayne sings -- make that oscillates -- the saccharine lyrics with a melody resembling "Home on the Range" played sideways. If The Old Prospector Talks is any example, the Poetic Gems were strictly cubic zirconia.

BONUS POINTS: The lyricist of the too-treacly by 1,000 "Take Me Home to the Mountain" was pre-Academy Award/Pulitzer Prize winner Frank Loesser, who wrote the inane songs for Universal's Postal Inspector five years later. 

INFORMATION PLEASE (SERIES 2, #12) (1941): Now this is a short subject series I can get behind: RKO's 10-minute versions of one of the most popular radio quiz shows of its time. That's why people suddenly make themselves scarce when I ask if they want to drop by for a movie.

Hosted by Simon & Schuster editor Clifton Fadiman, Information Please featured three "intellectuals" as its regular panelists -- newspaper columnists Franklin P. Adams and John Kiernan, and composer/musician/actor/wit/pharmaceutical addict Oscar Levant, along with a different guest panelist each week -- in this case, a bespectacled Boris Karloff. Wheel of Fortune it was not.

Now, you couldn't spend even a one-reeler watching a panel of smarty-pants just answering questions read by the host. Therefore, in the Information Please shorts, panelists had to identify things, as, in this case, what kinds of drinks were served in the particular glasses they were shown. (No surprise that the drink Karloff correctly guesses is the Zombie.) They also have to identify nursery rhymes mimed by actors (a little boy with a bottle of rye and a bag of rye flower represents "Sing a Song of Sixpence") and act out literary characters. Would you have correctly guessed that a woman looking out a window as a man walked by was The Lady of Shallot? And did you know "Shallot" was pronounced "Shalay"? John Kiernan did! 

Unlike today, then, there was a time when the average person enjoyed listening to intelligent people. Audiences aspired to be well-educated, and supplied the questions themselves. The top prize for stumping the panel was the Encyclopedia Britannica, which most families probably treasured more than they would a new car. The information I want is when did people prefer to be stupid?

BONUS POINTS: Did you remember "Jack and Jill" had a verse involving vinegar and brown paper? Franklin P. Adams did!

HOW DO YOU LIKE THE BOWERY? (1960): If you were to ask a New Yorker today
that question, they'd probably say, "Not bad. Some of it's out of my reach." But it was way different in 1960 as this 12-minute, 16mm documentary demonstrates, when it was the home to countless bums before they were called homeless (and now, unhoused). 

What's striking about these men (and they're all men) is that many, if not most, are relatively well-dressed in hats, ties, occasionally suits, and overcoats that people would pay good money for in used-clothing stores today. They're mostly self-confessed alcoholics who by and large admit to being unhappy with what's become of themselves. One guy wound up on the Bowery after accidentally running over his wife while backing up his car, and now is just waiting to join her. Another can't get a job due to being partly paralyzed, while a third, at age 70, can't get his old job back at the post office. One optimistic fellow likes that you can get a full breakfast for a quarter. Got to find good luck where you can.

There are moments of dark humor, as with a fellow named Red. Red, who refers to himself in the third person, reminisces about being friends with Trigger Burke, who went to the chair for killing Poochy Walsh. Red himself retired four years earlier from his previous employment as a gunman, having been a member, he claims, of Pistol Local 824 before serving a stint in Sing-Sing. (Everybody's a union worker in New York.) By the way, you can read about Trigger Burke and Poochy Walsh on Wikipedia. 

Red isn't the only interesting person we meet. An unnamed guy who resembles Bela Lugosi -- he even articulates liked a trained stage actor -- has no use for the "stupid" social workers he encounters at the men's shelters. Another denizen, sporting a nose equal to that of the late-in-life W.C. Fields, found himself in the Bowery after the death of his wife. By the end of the short, the title How Do You Like the Bowery? is asked as much to us as it is its inhabitants. 

BONUS POINTS: Of the many flophouses seen, one is named Providence, while another is Newport -- two cities from my home state. If these places still exist on the Bowery, I hope I never wind up there.

                                                      *************

WHO'S XI?

THE SCENE: A street corner. Two friends, BUD and LOU, are deep in conversation.

BUD: I hope you're going to vote next week.

LOU: Oh sure, I'm gonna be first in line.

BUD: Well, that's fine. 

LOU: I'm very patriotic, y'know.

BUD: So I hear! I guess you know there's a lot at stake. If Harris is elected, she'll have to face adversaries like Putin --

LOU: Oh yeah, I don't like that guy, he's mean.

BUD: Then there's Xi 

LOU: Who's she?

BUD: Xi's the president of China.

LOU: She ain't the president of China.

BUD: Whaddaya mean?

LOU: She's the vice-president of the United States.

BUD: I'm not talking about Harris.

LOU: Well, who're you talking about?

BUD: Xi!

LOU: So am I!

BUD: You're talking about Harris

LOU: I know!

BUD: And I'm talking about the president of China.

LOU: You're crazy! How can she be the president of China?

BUD: Xi was elected, that's how.

LOU: How can she be the president of two countries at once?

BUD: Xi's only the president of China,

LOU: Since when?

BUD: 2013.

LOU: So who's been vice president under Biden?

BUD: Harris.

LOU: That's what I said.

BUD: No, you said Xi. 

LOU: She is Harris!

BUD: No, Xi is him.

LOU: How can she be him?

BUD: Who are you talking about?

LOU: Her!

LOU: Well, I'm talking about him!

BUD: Who?

LOU: She!

BUD: Look, forget about Xi. Harris is going to have to deal with Kim, as well.

LOU: Who's Kim?

BUD: Kim's the president of North Korea.

LOU: She's the president of North Korea?

BUD: No, Xi is the president of China.

LOU: You just said she was the president of North Korea --

BUD: Xi is Chinese!

LOU: I thought her father was Indian!

BUD: Who's father?

LOU: Harris!

BUD: We're not talking about Harris!

LOU: Who're we talking about?

BUD: Xi!

LOU: Oh, so we're talking about the other she.

BUD: What other she?

LOU: Kim.

BUD: No, we're talking about Xi!

LOU: Make up your mind, is it Kim or Harris?

BUD: It's neither!

LOU: So who's the third dame?

BUD: Who?

LOU: That's what I'm asking you!

BUD: Well, I'm just telling you! 

LOU: So let me get this straight. Harris wants to be president of the United States. But Xi is already the president of China.

BUD: And Kim is the president of North Korea.

LOU: Why do you keep going back to Kim?

BUD: Because Kim is even more dangerous than Xi.

LOU: Which one?

BUD: Which one what?

LOU: You just said Kim is more dangerous than Xi. And what I wanna know is which she?

BUD: There's only one Xi.

LOU: But there's Harris and Kim.

BUD: Correct.

LOU: But you said she is the president of China!

BUD: Correct.

LOU: Which one?

BUD: I told you, there's only one Xi!

LOU: Let me get this straight. There's someone named Harris, right? And she's the vice-president.

BUD: Of course!

LOU: Then there's someone named Kim. 

BUD: That's right.

LOU: And she is the president of North Korea.

BUD: No, he is the president of North Korea.

LOU: I thought she was.

BUD: No, Xi is the president of China. Kim is the president of North Korea.

LOU: That's what I said. She is the president of North Korea.

BUD: Can't you pay attention? The president of China is --

BUD & LOU: She!

LOU: OK, so she is the president of China. And the president of North Korea is somebody named Kim. And Harris is running for president of the United States. If Harris wins, she'll have to deal with Kim and she. So she and Kim are friends but she doesn't like Harris. And Harris doesn't like she or Kim. But she needs to get along with she because Kim is more dangerous than she or she. So Harris probably wants to come between she and Kim, so that she is out in the cold and Harris and team up with she to get rid of Kim. Then she will be a popular president, she will be kicked out of North Korea, she will still be president of China, and I'm ready to cruise.

BUD: What's that?

LOU: I said I'm ready to cruise.

BUD: Oh, he's the senator from Texas.

LOU: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

                                                      **************

COULD YOU REPEAT THAT?

 Throughout the day, I receive texts from various news outlets, none of which I've asked for. This is yesterday's detailed, well-thought-out missive from ABC News in its entirety:

And even with that, they publish a photo of Kim Jong Un instead of Mayor who says an attack targeting a Turkish defense company leaves 3 dead and 5 wounded.

                                                       ****************

THIS NEARLY WAS MINE

The only thing worse than not being part of this
was if it happened outside my building.

 My wife had just left for the gym when she sent me an urgent message: They are shooting on York between 89 and 90.  It looks big.  You may want to check it out. 

Out of towners would mistake such a text for a gang war breaking out. You
know, New York. Even on the Upper East Side.

But no, this was more serious. It was heads-up that a TV or movie production was currently in progress five blocks away. And as such, was an exciting yet bittersweet event for our otherwise sleepy neighborhood.

Exciting because it's always cool to see lights, camera, action just around the block. And if the lead actors are visible to the naked eye, so much the better. Bittersweet because, as I stood there watching the background actors waiting for their cue, dressed for late autumn on a 70-degree morning, I was thinking wistfully, Ah yes. I was once one of those folks gaped at by spectators like prized specimens at a human zoo.

Now, I was part of the rubbernecking throng asked to cross the street. I could've nudged the person next to me and confided, "Y'know, I've worked on this. Not as glamorous as you think. Even this show, And Just Like That. Oh yes, I was on the set with Sarah Jessica Parker -- twice! Yup, just as nice as she seems on TV."

Had I known this was my swan
song, I'd have wiped that stupid
smile off my face.

Due to different factors -- new casting agents looking for new faces, aging out of certain parts, regular visits for blood work interfering with my weekly (or daily) schedule) -- my last gig was May 31 as a Rally Goer on The Night Agent. 

By then, I had gotten to the stage where I was mentoring newcomers. If the camera was tracking behind us, I'd tell them, OK, here's how we're going to do it. When we reach our marks, we turn to each other and pretend to talk. That way, the camera will see our faces. 

Cheap ploy? If you insist. All I know is that when the episode airs, the woman I was paired with will probably be grateful for the advice. There I am! And I owe it all to him! It's what I was born for.

Not the selfie I expected that day.

Two weeks after that job, I was getting my first infusion of platelets, in what I thought was just a hiccup in my schedule. I thought wrong. Having to cancel a few gigs over the next month due to unexpected medical appointments, when my platelet count was dropping faster than the box office take of the new Joker movie, I realized I had to take a sabbatical from background work until my doctor finally got the med dosage and injection schedule to such a state where I was no longer semi-tethered to NYU Langone Ambulatory Center in Midtown East. It could, I was informed, take up to six months.

I cancelled my Casting Networks membership and made myself unavailable to Central Casting for the foreseeable future. It wasn't easy, after eight years (six and a half, if you subtract covid and strikes) of work. 

It was a poignant moment indeed on the corner of 89th and York to start walking home just as the P.A. shouted, "Background! Action!" All that was missing was a camera, pulling back to a wide crane shot as I disappeared down the block, unnoticed, unrecognized -- dare I say unloved? -- in five takes to justify the budget.

Moments after returning home, I received another text from my wife as she was coming back from the gym: I saw Sarah Jessica Parker. Bathing in reveries of past gigs, yet accepting my fate, I bucked up and replied with the emotional maturity that comes with living three score and eight years: Hah! I WORKED with Sarah Jessica Parker!

How soon they forget.

                                                       ************

                                                    

THE FADED COLOR NETWORK

 While recently emptying one of the big plastic containers we keep in the basement, I removed a 55-year-old beach towel. You might think such an item over a half-century old would be strange to keep. But, as I always have to remind my readers, you don't know me. 

When my father owned an appliance store, he became the recipient of the towel, which featured the 1969-1970 schedule of NBC-TV. At the time, the network was owned by RCA, which gave my father the exclusive rights to sell its color TVs (in our town, I mean). Although now faded by time, sun, and laundry spins, it still tells a story TV fans of a certain age will remember.

Much better.

As you can see, even as late as 1969, NBC felt compelled to refer to itself as the full color network. (All the networks switched entirely to color for prime time by the 1966-1967 season, although NBC seems to be the only one that really was all color during the daytime, too). For a TV-watching zombie like me, color was heaven on earth. That was until I rewatched some of these shows as an adult and realized the black & white seasons of, say, The Andy Griffith Show and Man from UNCLE were better.

Let's take a look at the Peacock network from 55 years ago. The Today Show still exists, while The Tonight Show has gone through two hosts since Johnny Carson left over 30 years ago. Well, three if you count Conan O'Brien's doomed eight-month stint. OK, four if you're a stickler and count Jay Leno's before-and-after Conan as two. 

Today, they'd be considered the
Never-Ready-For-Prime-Time
News Anchors.

The Huntley-Brinkley Report was in its final year. A classy, low-key news program, H-B was, unlike today, hosted by two incredibly unphotogenic guys who happened to be serious journalists. In their earlier days, they stood at podiums -- one in New York, the other in Washington -- with lit cigarettes strategically placed so that you saw only the smoke drifting up. At age eight, I took such things for granted.

As for the rest of the schedule... well, this was before the FCC ordered networks to give up their 7:30-8:00 airtime for what was supposed to be locally produced public affairs programs. This actually worked out well, until the affiliates decided that sitcom reruns and syndicated game shows were easier and cheaper to air. Who wants serious information when they can watch Wheel of Fortune and 30 year-old episodes of Seinfeld? 

What's the difference between a high and a low
chaparral? In fact, what heck is a chaparral?

Breaking down the rest of the schedule by genres:

 Five sitcoms: The Bill Cosby Show, My World and Welcome to It, I Dream of Jeannie, The Debbie Reynolds Show, and Julia. The Cosby show was the one where he played a gym teacher, not a rapist doctor.

Four Westerns: Bonanza, The Virginian, Daniel Boone, and The High Chaparral. I suppose calling Daniel Boone a Western is pushing it, but any show with horses and Indians is a Western to me.

The Cowsills on Kraft Music Hall. I put this here
because we're both from the same town.

Four variety shows: Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, Kraft Music Hall, Dean Martin Show, and Andy Williams Show. OK, so Laugh-In was really sketch comedy, but during the first season The Strawberry Alarm Clock appeared. Ergo, variety.

Three movies: Monday Night at the Movies, Tuesday Night at the Movies, and the father of them all, Saturday Night at the Movies. In other words, cheap programming. I always looked forward to the times they had 10 minutes to kill at the end so that former actor/nightclub MC/second-tier comedian Ken Murray could show his old home movies of show biz pals. (I can still hear the angelic choir sing the two-word opening theme: "Hollywood!... Hollywood!") But his caricature at the beginning of the segment terrified me. Wish I could find it so you understood the nightmares it caused.   

One "family" series: The Wonderful World of Disney, previously titled The Wonderful World of Color. It took his death to get the show named after him.

Three cop shows: Dragnet, Adam-12, and Ironside. The first two were Jack Webb productions. If NBC aired them today, they'd be titled L.A. Dragnet and L.A. Adam-12.

OK wise guy, which of the dramas featured this
credit?

Four dramas: The Bold Ones, Then Came Bronson, The Name of the Game, Bracken's World. (Like The Virginian, Bracken's World was 90 minutes long.) Technically, The Bold Ones was the uber-title of a few different series that traded places week by week -- The New Doctors, The Lawyers, The Protectors, and The Senator. Because The Senator was critically acclaimed, your average viewer never tuned in, and lasted only eight episodes. Good to know some things never change.

This peacock is no
RINO.

Today on network TV, the variety, Western, and family genres are dead as analogue television, as are 90-minute series. What NBC has now that they didn't in 1969-1970 are game and reality shows -- the current equivalent of the cheap (Blank) Night at the Movies. 

Another difference: the NBC peacock still faced left in 1969. In 1980 it turned right to "face the future" where it remains today, although rumor had it that it was at behest of the network president to reflect his political bent. Which sounds more likely?

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 42

By sheer coincidence, three of these titles are from 1951, which will never be confused with 1939 as a classic year for movies. 

SKYSCRAPER SOULS (1932): Warren William, the King of the Pre-Codes, temporarily left his homebase at Warner Bros. for M-G-M as super-rich banker David Dwight, who isn't super-rich enough to outright own the skyscraper he's built. Nor is he moral enough to stop stringing along his loyal secretary Sarah while he woos her beautiful young niece, Lynn, who's currently dating Tom, a bank teller. Dwight solves the first problem by taking on a partner and issuing stock. As they start manipulating the market, everyone who bought shares in the stock -- including Tom -- lose their money, with unintended consequences all around.

While the story of Skyscraper Souls is pure Warners -- amoral boss, willing secretary, sex without guilt -- its gloss is M-G-M all the way. Warren William never starred in a better-looking movie, that's for sure. Louis B. Mayer must have gazed enviously at the box office take William's movies provided, and wanted a piece of the action, budget be damned. In fact, bigger budgets were the studio's whole reason for being. An overhead shot of the Dwight Building lobby is breathtaking in its size and scope -- this is a place where anybody would want to work, even if the boss is lecherous and, ultimately, near-sociopathic in his plan to bankrupt innocent  investors in order to gain entire ownership of his office tower, leading to one of the pre-codes' more genuinely shocking climaxes in what was, until then, something of a nasty joyride of a picture. 

Thanks to the seemingly different way people aged a century or so ago. 38 year-old Warren William and 29 year-old Verree Teasdale both look middle-aged, all the more commendable to be paired as lovers as well as boss and secretary, making his affair with 22 year-old Maureen O'Sullivan (who definitely looks her age) likely that much more risible to some audiences today but perfectly acceptable (and understandable) in 1932, even if she already has a boyfriend. There's a price to be paid for all those sexual and financial shenanigans, unusual in a pre-code like Skyscraper Souls, yet fitting nonetheless. 

BONUS POINTS: Boris Karloff can be seen in a two-second walk-on in a bank scene. Was his role meant to be larger, or was he between takes of The Mask of Fu Manchu at Metro when Skyscraper Souls director Edgar Selwyn put him through make-up and wardrobe just for fun?

YES SIR, MR. BONES (1951): Over five decades ago, I stumbled upon Yes Sir, Mr. Bones while flipping through the TV dial, and what little I watched scared the hell out of me. Since then, the very idea of minstrel shows has become more bizarre even as "all in good fun" blackface has had a resurgence. Ergo, I'm asking for trouble by even watching this super-cheap release from poverty row studio Lippert Pictures, while saving you the guilt you'd feel from watching it yourself. 

Hanging on by the barest of plot threads -- a little boy visiting a rest home for former minstrel entertainers gets to imagine what one of the shows was like -- Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is historically important for two reasons, even if only one of which would be acceptable today. First, it features entertainers who actually appeared in minstrel shows of yore, including husband and wife team Chick & Cotton Watts, the remarkably offensive Slim Williams, and the legendary Emmett Miller, whose eerie "high yodeling" singing influenced Jimmy Rodgers and, eventually, Hank Williams. Unfortunately, Miller gets only a few seconds demonstrating his style, spending a large chunk of his time doing a typical mushmouth routine with Ches Davis.

A more acceptable -- and entirely unsurprising -- reason to watch Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is that the handful of black entertainers featured are so much better than the ofays in blackface. Monette Moore's vocalizing of "Stay Out of the Kitchen" (likely sung this one time only) makes up for her Aunt Jemima wardrobe, while Brother Bones's whistling and "bones"-playing of "Listen to the Mockingbird" amazes even today. But it's the hilarious team of F.E. Miller and Scatman Carothers (who would later drop the "a" from his last name) that steal the show with a sample of the so-called "never-ending" conversation that Miller shared years earlier on stage with Mantan Moreland. (They were teamed in the previously-discussed Mr. Washington Goes to Town.) These two pros are so brilliant that it makes you wonder what they and their brethren thought of being onstage with dopey guys in blackface. From start to finish, Yes Sir, Mr. Bones is only an hour long, which, along with its restoration, may or may not be enough to get you interested in watching it on YouTube. (I know, I know -- somebody spent good money on restoring Yes Sir, Mr. Bones? There must be a big audience for blackface in the 21st century.)

BONUS POINTS: Never heard of Brother Bones? If you've ever watched the Harlem Globetrotters, you've definitely heard his 1949 recording of "Sweet Georgia Brown". Scatman Crothers went on to make 134 movie and TV appearances, his best-known being Halloran, the hotel maintenance man in The Shining. 

THE HOODLUM (1951): Against the advice of the warden, 12-time loser Vincent Lubeck is let out of stir and into the arms of his dear old mother. His younger brother Johnny isn't so welcoming, but at the behest of mom gives Vince a job at his gas station. Vince returns the favor by driving away customers, knocking up Johnny's gf Rosa, and plotting a bank heist with some of his chums from the old days. You can get dizzy counting the number of subsequent deaths, including mom (by heartbreak), Rosa (via swan dive off an apartment building) and Vincent himself. Well, at least Johnny still has the gas station.

Lawrence Tierney was still riding the fumes of his star making role in Dillinger from 1945 when The Hoodlum was released. This low-budget programmer has every cliche in the screenwriters' book, including the gray-haired mother with an Easter European accent, and a robbery that doesn't go as planned. But none of that matters with Tierney in the lead. Not a great actor by any stretch -- he's only marginally better than George Raft, whom he also sounds like -- Tierney nevertheless is one of the scarier bad guys of his time. Maybe he was drawing from his real-life exploits of bar fights and beating up cops (which derailed his career), but there's something undeniably unnerving about his performance in The Hoodlum, or any of his bad-guy roles. 

You can't say he has no depth as an actor; you can see Vince's shame when, on the run from the cops, his dying mom admits to being wrong about urging the parole board to free him from prison. But until that point, Tierney is at his best treating Rosa like dirt after she asks him to run away with her, splashing a car with gasoline because he doesn't like the driver, or shooting as many bank guards as possible at the robbery. 

Edward Tierney, Lawrence's real-life younger brother, is strictly one-note as Johnny, perhaps due as much to the script as his talent, although it's pretty interesting to see the two siblings going at it the way they do. By the climax, when Johnny pulls a gun on Vince with the promise to kill him at the town dump, you wonder if any of what you're watching was cathartic for Edward, whose career didn't go much of anywhere. As for Lawrence, he was already on the fast-track to smaller roles and only the occasional TV appearance before his great comeback in Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs in 1992, where he had become unrecognizable from the almost handsome but still scary actor he was in The Hoodlum. 

BONUS POINTS: Shaky rear-projection in the apartment rooftop scene makes L.A. look like it's experiencing a 2.0 earthquake.

SIROCCO (1951): Outside of In a Lonely Place, Humphrey Bogart's self-produced movies for Columbia aren't highly regarded. But give one of them, Sirocco, credit for being intriguing if nothing else, as Bogie portrays a genuine antihero that you're not sure you want to root for, seeing that his character, Harry Smith, is smuggling weapons to Syrian terrorists -- or are they freedom fighters? -- battling the French occupational force in 1923. (The sounds of violent street fighting run almost nonstop until the very end.) Smith finds himself attracted to Violette, the sidepiece of Col. Feroud of the French army, who makes the smuggler his number one target more for personal than professional reasons. After being informed on by a colleague, Smith suddenly finds himself shunned by almost everybody he knows -- except, ironically, Feroud, who does him a favor, ultimately at the cost of one of their lives. 

As with another of Bogart's Columbia releases, Tokyo Joe from two years earlier, Sirocco gives off a Casablanca vibe; hell, nine years after that classic's release, the tagline on the one-sheet above doesn't even try to hide it. Mideast intrigue, guys in fezzes, a foreign dame, and the lead character who has no cause to believe in, no loyalty to any side -- he can even get you out of the country for a price. The difference is that you know from the get-go that it's all a front for Casablanca's Rick Blaine. Sirocco's Harry Smith is a cynic bordering on nihilist, seeing that he doesn't care who or how many die as long as he gets paid. And he walked out on his wife back in the States!  In a way, it's kind of a refreshing change to see him not as a conventional hero or bad guy but something in between -- or, perhaps, out of bounds.

Also going for Sirocco is the fine cast of supporting characters actors. Bogart, comfortable in his own skin on and offscreen, seems to have no problem being upstaged every time he turns around. He must have enjoyed working with Everett Sloane and Zero Mostel on his previous movie The Enforcer, seeing they appear here respectively as the French commanding officer Gen. LaSalle and smuggler Balukjiaan, the man who drops a dime on Smith to save his own neck. The familiar Peter Brocco and Jeff Corey underplay to good effect as a sarcastic barber and witty jewel thief, while the lively Nick Dennis (Harry's sidekick Nasir) unashamedly steals every scene from Bogart with the ease of Jerry Colonna, whom he resembles. As with The Enforcer, Sirocco provides proof that a new generation of actors had come along who undoubtedly admired Bogart but had their own way of doing things. 

So it's kind of strange that the biggest name outside of Bogart, 40-year-old Lee J. Cobb, doesn't register well as Col. Feroud. Hulking, jealous, prone to anger yet desirous of brokering a truce between the French and Syrians, Cobb is nevertheless wrong for the part. (He and Everett Sloane might have swapped roles to better effect.) As for Marta Toren as Violette, whatever sex appeal she exudes -- which isn't much -- is overpowered by her character's greed. You just don't buy Smith's attraction to her, unless it's because she's a woman who matches him in misanthropy. These little problems aside, Sirocco overall is a well-made, fascinating drama, and probably the second best of Bogart's Columbia pictures.

BONUS POINTS: Cobb's dialogue with LaSalle and the emotionally cold leader of the Syrian underground proves nothing has ever changed in the Middle East and never will. Maybe Harry Smith was onto something after all.

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