Showing posts with label Manhattan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Manhattan. Show all posts

Friday, September 15, 2017

spring and summer reads: horror and autobiography

I have been so busy the past few months with my own book and now assorted hurricanes, that I didn't have a chance to post reviews of all of the books I have been reading. The first bunch is a combination of horror and autobiography, which pretty much sums up my interests of late. Anyone have a good horror autobiography to recommend?

In the meantime, here are a few titles from my recent reading list:

The Men in My Life: A Memoir of Love and Art in 1950s Manhattan - Patricia Bosworth

This is a fascinating glimpse into a woman's life in the art and theater world of 1950s New York. Patricia Bosworth was born into a wealthy San Francisco family. Her father, attorney Bartley Crum, saw his career and fortunes dive after he defended the Hollywood Ten (Hollywood directors and writers who were blacklisted as Communists during Senator Joseph McCarthy's Red Scare fear campaign - Dalton Trumbo, Edward Dmytryk, Herbert J. Biberman, Lester Cole, Alvah Bessie, Ring Lardner Jr., John Howard Lawson, Albert Maltz, Samuel Ornitz, and Adrian Scott.) Crum moved the family to what he hoped was a more open and understanding New York, but he never really bounced back.

Complicating matters was his drug and alcohol abuse, which landed him in multiple unsuccessful dry-out attempts. He did manage to acquire a few  high-profile clients, including actors Rita Hayworth and Montgomery Clift, who would visit the house and gave young Patricia a glimpse into Manhattan's film and theater world. She would later join the famed Actor's Studio and work with, or at least brush up against, actors and artists like Steve McQueen, Marilyn Monroe, Diane Arbus, Gore Vidal, and Helen Hayes, among many others. Her most notable film role was a small part in The Nun's Story, starring Audrey Hepburn. But Bosworth's tale of that time on a movie set in Rome was far from glamorous, coinciding with a harrowing personal and physical event that shines a light on how far women have come since the 1950s and how we need to keep it that way.

Family tragedy was compounded when Patricia's younger brother, Bart Jr., committed suicide. It is clear to the reader that Bart was homosexual. After he and a friend were found in a compromising position at school and the friend subsequently killed himself, Bart sank into a deeper and deeper depression until he ultimately chose to take his own life.The family seemed helpless or oblivious to Bart's plight. Although Bosworth doesn't address issues of homophobia and mental illness directly, there are echoes of depression, addictive behavior, and denial of true self between both the father and son. What is even more tragic is that young people in Bart's position sometimes still feel compelled to take their own lives today.

Bosworth ultimately gave up acting to pursue her real passion, writing, and she has become well known for insightful biographies of Marlon Brando, Montgomery Clift, Jane Fonda, and Diane Arbus, as well as writing in more detail about her father and the Hollywood Ten (Anything Your Little Heart Desires: An American Family Story, 1997).

I found her story fascinating and am eager to now try some of her other biographies.

Patricia Bosworth in her Actors Studio days

Echoes From the Macabre - Daphne Du Maurier

I have always loved Du Maurier's Rebecca and have read Don't Look Now before in some other edition, but I don't think I had ever read the original version of The Birds, which was the basis for the classic Alfred Hitchcock horror film. Set in England the story is just as scary, and even more bleak, if that is possible. The rest of the stories are also very good, in a suspenseful, and in some cases, very creepy kind of way. They include: The Apple Tree, The Pool, The Blue Lenses, Kiss Me Again, Stranger, The Chamois, Not After Midnight, and The Old Man. I honestly don't want to even give a summary for any of these, as I think it is best to read them with no preconceptions. It is clear to see why Hitchcock loved Du Maurier's sometimes twisted take on life.

The Haunting of Hill House - Shirley Jackson

A true classic of horror, which tells the tale of four paranormal researchers who decide to spend some time in one of the most horrible-looking and possibly -acting houses of all time - Hill House. Dr. Montague, an erudite ghost chaser, enlists the help of three young people to prove that Hill House is truly haunted and evil. What could go wrong? Luke, who is a descendent of the original owner and builder of the terrible manse, chooses to treat the experiment as a joke. The beautiful and mysterious Theodora's motives to being there are unclear, but it is likely that she approaches the situation as a thrill seeker. Eleanor, an unhappy and possibly unstable young woman, hopes that Hill House will be the exciting new chapter in a previously dull and uninteresting life. When the cook and her husband tell the guests that they won't stay after sundown that should be the quartet's first clue that something is very wrong about Hill House.

I Shock Myself - The Autobiography of Beatrice Wood

To end things on an up note, I am including this wonderful autobiography of the little-known artist and ceramicist Beatrice Wood. Sometimes called "The Mama of Dada," she died in 1995 at the age of 105. During her long and eventful life she associated with some very interesting people, including Marcel Duchamp, Francis Picabia, J. Krishnamurti, and the art collectors Louise and Walter Arensberg. Wood is also considered to be the inspiration for the the woman who is loved by two men in Jules et Jim, which was written by Henri-Pierre Roché, who she was involved with. Their mutual close friend Marcel Duchamp fills out the third side of the eternal triangle. What was Wood's secret to her long and storied life? "I owe it all to chocolate and young men." Check her out. She was pretty amazing.

The colorful Beatrice Wood in her studio

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

amateurs

I just don't get the drivers here in South Florida. I can't believe I'm saying this, but they are truly the worst I've encountered. And that's saying a lot. I was born and bred in new Jersey and the term "Jersey Driver" wasn't coined for no reason. I saw some crazy things while I grew up on the roads of New Jersey. Maybe it's all the special U-turns and traffic circles. It does something to how a New Jerseyan practices road rules. Let's just say it was interesting place to learn to drive.

I thought I had seen it all until I moved to Brooklyn. Brooklyn drivers were way worse than Manhattan drivers, who basically have to give up driving altogether and just inch from light to light, block to block. Brooklyn drivers were—well the best word to use would be ... improvisational. Staying in lanes, using signals—these were all just suggestions to most Brooklyn drivers in my experience. Maybe being just a "drive through" for the bridge and tunnel crowd on the way from New Jersey to Manhattan or Staten Island or Long Island does something to a Brooklynite. At least, once they get behind the wheel.




And then I moved to Washington, D.C. The worst driving that I had seen yet. For some reason, the moment you cross the Potomac into Virginia the adrenaline levels of the drivers raise astronomically. It's a tooth and nail fight just to change lanes on 95. The Beltway isn't just an outer and inner loop of highway that surrounds D.C. It is an obsession. I can't tell you how many times a perfectly intelligent conversation would devolve into, "What route did so and so take to get there", "What route would they try to go home?" And everyone would chime in, with a favorite traffic/driving secret. I was never so bored by a topic in my life. These traffic symposiums hit their absolute nadir when I was pregnant. Helpful and wonderful people tried to assist me in plotting myriad routes to the hospital for "when the times comes." I put my foot down and told them I already planned on taking the simplest route, with the biggest streets. I didn't care if we could shave off another five minutes by their very special Georgetown shortcut. End of discussion.

That all seems child's play now, even entertaining, compared to the way people drive here. And it's not just the traditional "little old ladies from Pasadena," although they are admittedly a factor. Is it the fact that so many folks are here on vacation, or originally from other parts of the country, with different traffic patterns? Also maybe be a factor. But what is mostly bugging me is the poor quality of driving (I like to drive, in case you haven't already guessed.) It's the bobbing and weaving in traffic. The inconsistent driving—first too fast and then abruptly slowing down. The total disregard for traffic lights.

I've puzzled about what exactly is the problem, because the traffic and "rush hour" here is nothing compared to what I'm used to. And then I figured it out. These folks don't know what it is to encounter a real traffic jam, or god forbid, a presidential motorcade. But they drive like they think they know what city driving is like. Like they think they know what any driving is like. They're amateurs.
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Sunday, June 20, 2010

happy father's day

A picture of my dad at the beach—he was about ten years old when this photo was taken. He wasn't much of a fan of the water, at least as far as I know, but we always lived near the ocean when I was growing up.

He was born on 14th Street in Manhattan, but his family moved to the Jersey Shore when he was a kid, and he spent most of his life there or at least nearby.

The past ten years is probably the longest I have spent living somewhere (D.C.) that it takes more than ten minutes to drive to a nearby beach, but that is soon about to change.

I miss you dad, and will be thinking about you when I get the sand between my toes once again . . .


Joseph at the beach, c. 1935

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