Jew Eat Yet?

Oscar Recap: Bring Back the Writers’ Strike!

Is it just me or was that the most boring Oscars presentation in the history of the awards? Is it because they only had a few weeks to prepare for the broadcast? Maybe they would have been better off with the clips show they were working on in the event that the strike hadn’t ended. Apart from some of host Jon Stewart’s zingers (and I’m sure he brought his own writers), the show seemed as if it were put together by some very rusty folks. YAWN.

Last year I tried to be positive in my Oscars post mortem, and I listed the ten best things about the show. This year I can’t even come up with ten comments, good OR bad. But here are some random ramblings:

Jon Stewart scores. I used to resent when non-film people hosted the show but now I see that the job requires some very unique and specific skills, all of which Jon Stewart has in spades. What works best, in my opinion, is someone who can pull off a balancing act between reverence and cynicism. The host needs to take the awards seriously, but with a wink and a healthy dose of awareness about the absurdity of the evening. Bob Hope could do it. And Stewart is a worthy successor. “Before we spend the next four to five hours giving each other golden statues, let's take a moment to congratulate ourselves.” Perfect line to start things out with. I think Jon Stewart did a good job throughout, I only wish he’d been able to goose up the bland proceedings even more. He touched on some political humor but didn’t go very far with it, and I was surprised there wasn’t more mention of Obama-mania. The best joke of the evening, and the only one that had me screaming with laughter, was at poor Hillary’s expense. After referring to nominee Julie Christie, he explained that her movie “Away From Her” was about “a woman who forgets about her husband. Hillary Clinton called it the feel-good movie of the year.” Now that’s funny.

I also liked his reference to the incredibly violent slate of Best Picture nominees with “Juno” as the one exception. “Tonight we look beyond the dark days to focus on happier fare—this year's slate of Oscar-nominated psychopathic killer movies. Does this town need a hug? No Country For Old Men, Sweeney Todd, There Will Be Blood. All I can say is: thank God for teen pregnancy!” And I’m glad he pointed out the absurdity of Vanity Fair canceling its big Oscar party in deference to the writers. Huh? They did this AFTER the strike ended, it made no sense. “You know another way they could show respect for the writers?” Stewart asked. “Maybe one day invite some of them to the Vanity Fair Oscar party! Don’t worry. They won't mingle.” Worse joke of the evening? A tie between introducing Harrison Ford as a car dealership and the crack about John Travolta parking his airplane on La Brea Avenue. I did like the nod to new technologies. Coming back from the commercial to find Stewart playing Wii Sports on the gigantic screen was funny, as was seeing him watching “Lawrence of Arabia” on his “widescreen” iPhone. I just hope those were topical gags and not product placements. But despite his talents, Stewart wasn’t enough to save this dreary show. Is Billy Crystal finally ready to come back?

The perils of presenting. I know I’m kvetching about the lack of spice on the show, but giving the presenters stale comedy bits to read mechanically off the TelePrompter is so NOT the answer. Every one of these routines was cringe-worthy, especially the tired trick of announcing one set of presenters and then bringing out two “substitutes” as they did last night with Jonah Hill and Seth Rogen arguing which one of them was Halle Berry and which one was Judi Dench. NOT funny, and I really felt for the guys, especially Jonah Hill who we met last year at "The Tonight Show" and who seemed like such a nice guy. These bits are impossible to pull off, why can’t they just allow the presenters’ own personalities to come through. I remember those rare occasions in Oscars of yore when someone broke from the script and had a spontaneous moment (Bette Midler and Jack Nicholson come to mind). It was like getting a breath of fresh, clean air in a collapsed mine shaft. Even the brilliant Helen Mirren, who could make a recitation of the ingredients on a can of Spaghettios sound like Shakespeare, faltered when she tried to deliver the joke that was handed to her about Hollywood studio heads. Bring ad-libbing back to the Oscars!

Make me cry, damn it. That’s what it takes for me to really enjoy an Oscar broadcast—some genuine moments of sincere emotion. I was only moved to tears twice last night. First, when Javier Bardem launched into rapid-fire Spanish for the sake of his mother who was his date at the show and was obviously choked up at seeing her son up on that stage. Second, when “Juno” screenwriter Diablo Cody broke down while accepting her Oscar and thanked her parents for “accepting me exactly as I am.” I had no idea that the tattooed screenwriter was a former stripper. She definitely seems like a unique character for Hollywood and so hip that I hope we don’t find out she’s really a Harvard MBA student who fabricated a more interesting past.

R.I.P. American actors. This is the first Academy Awards where not a single American actor won an award (oops, it happened once before at the 1965 awards—see below). I didn’t hear anyone comment on that last night, or the fact that two of the awards went to British actors playing Americans. Is this a statement about our country’s actors? About the Academy’s love affair with Europeans? Not that I begrudge any of the winners their awards. I admit I was shocked that Tilda Swinton won for her role in “Michael Clayton.” She was great in the part, I just didn’t think she had a chance in hell. Neither did she, apparently, I’ve never seen someone look so shocked. And apparently she already made good on her promise to give her Oscar to her agent (and Oscar-lookalike) Brian Swardstrom. I love Swinton, she definitely marches to her own drummer and I admired her decision to wear that schmatte and not a stitch of makeup. God love her, with those blaring lights in the Kodak Theatre, she looked like she was auditioning for the opening scene in “Six Feet Under.” And one of my favorite moments of the evening was when Daniel Day-Lewis went up to accept his Oscar from Helen Mirren and kneeled down to be knighted by the Queen. “That’s the closest I’ll ever come to getting a knighthood,” he quipped. I doubt it, I bet he gets that honor in due time, if not by Queen Elizabeth then surely by the future King Charles or William.

Why I HATE awards shows. The Best Actress presentation reminded me again why I hate, loathe, and despise these shows (and yet can't stop watching them). As I mentioned in my Oscar predictions (I scored an abysmal 2 out of 5 this year), I thought French actress Marion Cotillard was so magnificent in “La Vie en Rose” that she deserved every accolade she could possibly get. But I also thought Julie Christie gave a remarkable performance in “Away From Her” and I was excited that she was the rumored favorite for the award. When Cotillard’s name was announced, all I could think of was how disappointed Christie must be since so many people thought she would win. I know the actress will be just fine, but situations like that make me ponder the insanity of pitting these apple-and-orange performances against each other to decide which one is “best.” It’s really absurd, why do we do it? What is this insatiable need we have to compete? That said, Félicitations, Marion, j’espère de vous voir dans beaucoup de films dans le futur! Cotillard was delightful in her babbling speech, and such a knockout that you have to marvel at her Oscar-winning makeup people who transformed her into the middle-aged Edith Piaf. I just hope Cotillard doesn’t become the next Audrey Tatou and forsake the excellent French cinema for lousy higher-paying American blockbusters. Oops, too late, I just checked and saw that her next two films are American, but they sound good: one about 1930s gangsters with Johnny Depp and then the film version of the musical “Nine” with Oscar winner Javier Bardem playing Guido and a stellar international cast including Penelope Cruz and Sophia Loren. I’M IN! Is there a part for Julie Christie in the film?

I am dis-enchanted! Look, I am man enough to admit that I LOVED the movie “Enchanted.” I found it to be a charming, poignant, and clever take on the disparities between fairy tale dreams and the real world. I thought Amy Adams was so good in the lead role that she should have been nominated for Best Actress. I admit I was surprised when the film nabbed three of the five Best Song nominations. The songs were perfect for the film, but they were themselves parodies of treacly Disney fare and didn’t exactly stand alone as ballads that would live on as part of our canon of Oscar-nominated standards. But as much as I’ve complained in the past about the overblown production numbers for the song nominees, where did the budget go for this year’s songs? Did they use it for the live feed from Iraq in which five American soldiers in Baghdad presented the award for Best Documentary? Or for the not-very-funny animated bit that had Jerry Seinfeld’s bee character presenting the award for animation? The “Happy Working Song” was one of the best scenes in “Enchanted” because it was a technical tour-de-force. Amy Adams, having left her fairy tale world for gritty Manhattan, enlists the help of her animal friends to clean up Patrick Dempsey’s slovenly apartment. But instead of animated bluebirds, bunnies, and adorable mice wearing bow ties, she brings in armies of real cockroaches, city pigeons, and oversized New York sewer rats. It’s a brilliant scene contrasted against the inane frivolity of the Snow White-like song. So whose bright idea was it to stick Amy Adams on the stage alone in a pretty dress to warble this song without the slightest prop or accoutrement? Ouch. Adams made the best of it, but it was hard to watch. Even Jerry Seinfeld’s bee would have been a help. The other two numbers, while at least they had some costumes and dancing, were still such a bore that if I hadn’t already seen and loved the film, I would’ve immediately deleted it from my Netflix queue. Couldn’t Debbie Allen have been brought back to work something up behind poor Amy Adams?

Bravo, Jon Stewart! One last kudo to Jon Stewart for the classiest moment of the evening. When Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová won the Oscar for their song “Falling Slowly” from the film “Once,” the ruthless Academy orchestra cut Irglova off just as she reached the podium to make a few remarks. Coming back from the commercial, Jon Stewart took a few moments to bring the young woman back to the stage to make her speech. You go, Jon! Will Stewart’s bold gesture finally sound the death knell for that horrific practice of interrupting winners with blaring music to get them off the stage? God, I hate that. Of course most of the winners’ speeches are boring as hell, but I’d still rather let them finish, it’s just embarrassingly rude to give them the bum’s rush in that way. Good for Glen Hansard, by the way, who dropped out of school at the age of 13, and once played with his band The Frames at my sister’s bar in Chicago. And Irglová isn’t even 20 yet!

I guess that’s enough for now. No use following a long, crushingly boring Oscars show with a long, crushingly boring blog post about it. I should stop before commenting on honorary Oscar winner Robert Boyle, who while very much deserving of this award, gave an endless speech that was so awkward you could hear the nominees fidgeting in their seats. The director of the show kept cutting to wonderful, sweet Laura Linney, the only person in the audience crying from happiness as Boyle spoke instead of wincing in pain. And I should refrain from mentioning my lack of interest in this year’s film montages, something I usually look forward to, although I did enjoy Jon Stewart’s tongue-in-cheek salute to films featuring binoculars and bad dreams. And I shouldn’t be a killjoy and say how disappointed I was that the Coen brothers won so many awards for “No Country for Old Men.” I’m just not a big fan of this film, I much preferred Paul Thomas Anderson’s riveting “There Will Be Blood,” if we had to choose between violent depictions of American life. On the other hand, it’s fun to see such un-Hollywood types make it to the big time and it brought one of those much-craved tears to my eyes to see how happy and excited the brilliant Frances McDormand was to see her husband Joel Coen win so many awards. I’m so looking forward to McDormand’s next starring role in “Mrs. Pettigrew Lives for a Day,” co-starring Amy Adams, which opens next week. I hope to see both of those dames on the Kodak stage next year.

Attack of the Oscars

I’m sitting in the shadow of the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard the day before the Oscars surrounded by endless rows of giant golden statues.

It reminds me of the army of terra cotta soldiers that were buried with Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi in 210 BC and dug up in recent times. Everywhere I look I see groups of these stoic statues, and I’m sure the Hollywood honchos think they have the same powers of protection that the terra cotta soldiers had for the ancient Chinese. Hollywood Boulevard has been closed to traffic for a full week as they make preparations for the big day, and I’m amazed, as I am every year, at what a huge deal this awards show is for this town. And now that the writers’ strike is finally over, it seems like the glitz-starved movie people are pulling out all the stops to make this year’s show even more of High Mass than usual. They’re carting in so many of these oversized statues I wouldn’t be surprised to look up and see the Oscars goose-stepping down Hollywood Boulevard, crushing all the Priuses in their path.

My body is in Hollywood but my head is in the Big Apple where I’ll be going later this week because Wilco is FINALLY going to be the musical guest on “Saturday Night Live.” Oscar nominee Ellen Page is the host so I’ll be trailing her from Hollywood to New York, trying not to get a citation for stalking. My sister is pissed that it takes me months of planning to get to Chicago to visit my family but five minutes after hearing that my brother-in-law would be on SNL, I had a plane ticket and tickets to three Broadway shows. Woo-hoo! First, I’ll see one of my all-time favorite actresses, Laurie Metcalf, in David Mamet’s new political comedy “November” co-starring Nathan Lane. Then I can’t wait to see the great Steppenwolf Theatre troupe (of which Metcalf is a founding member) in their Broadway version of “August: Osage County,” a play Kendall and I had tickets for last November before the stagehands strike sidelined the show. Finally, I’m sticking around in New York an extra day to catch the very first preview of Patti LuPone in “Gypsy.” Who could ask for a better theatre troika than that? Maybe I can liveblog from NBC on Saturday night (and then call my therapist to discuss how so many of the fun experiences I’ve had lately are a result of my family members’ accomplishments, not my own).

Oy, with New York beckoning, I have to spend every waking second working since I’m drowning in deadlines. And I’ve got to get the hell out of Hollywood, these Oscars in body bags are CREEPING me out.

My Alaskan Interview

I recently posted the results of my interview of blogger Arjewtino which was part of Neil Kramer’s Great Interview Experiment. I was waiting to be interviewed myself and recently received some very interesting questions from a blogger named Theresa Bakker who writes a delightful blog called My Fairbanks Life. Theresa is a freelance writer, graduate student, stay-at-home mom, and former on-air Alaska Public Radio reporter. She tries to write in her blog every day which boggles my mind, especially since all her posts are meaty and beautifully written, not dashed-off accounts of what she made for dinner. Theresa’s blog goes way beyond life in Alaska, but I have to say that her photos and thoughts about living in the 49th state have made me want to suppress my pathological fear of winter weather and hightail it up north for a visit.

I enjoyed answering her questions and wish I could turn the tables. I’ve got so many questions of my own, beginning with her name—any relation to Jim and Tammy Faye, Theresa? But enough about me and my questions, let’s get back to ME and MY questions. And what about MY name?

Theresa: First off, do people ever confuse you with the Danny Miller who co-produces Fresh Air? Do you listen to Fresh Air?

Danny: I worship Terry Gross and Fresh Air, and yes, people constantly ask me if I’m that Danny Miller. I think that would be a very fun job, but alas, I’m merely a devoted listener (even though one of my family members was a guest on the show several years ago). It’s a drag having such a common name. There were three Danny Millers in my class in college and I’d often get the wrong grades. At least now when you Google “Danny Miller,” my blog is the first thing that comes up. It used to be the blog of a terrible poet and I was always worried people would think it was me. The next site that comes up these days is a New York-based artist named Danny Miller whose work is very erotic. Oy.

Theresa: I know you grew up in Chicago, the home of big franks, This American Life, Wilco and Chris Ware. It’s like a creative jungle there. Why would you ever leave?

Danny: I hear you, I still think Chicago is one of the greatest cities in the world, hot dogs included (no real Chicagoan would call them franks!). I moved to L.A. in 1986 for a job on a daily children’s TV show called “The Bear Witness News.” The show never made it to the air and the company I was working for went bankrupt six months after I arrived. Gulp. But some little voice in my head told me to stay here even though I had no friends, was broke, and never had the slightest desire to live in Los Angeles. I’m glad I did but I do miss Chicago and still consider myself a Chicagoan at heart. My family is still there so I visit often but to be honest, I do NOT miss the winters one little bit—the other day the wind chill was 20 degrees below zero in Chicago while it was over 80 degrees here. And I’m still mad at the city for tearing down the fantastic Granada Theatre on Sheridan Road and for changing Marshall Field’s to Macy’s. But they have L.A. beat in SO many ways including superb restaurants, museums (nothing beats the Museum of Science & Industry), innovative theatre (Steppenwolf was always my favorite), and the fantastic Chicago Park System. Oh, and I think This American Life is the best show on radio, bar none. (I admit I had to look up Chris Ware—he didn't move to Chicago until I was long gone—but I like his work!)

Theresa: You recently lost too many files in a computer crash. Work files. Ancestry research. What have you learned from this experience, besides how to back up your hard drive. Are we too dependent on easy access to information?

Danny: Oy, you’re reminding me that for all my hysteria last fall I still haven’t become the back-up fanatic that I intended to be. Finding out that none of my files could be recovered was horrifying but also sort of liberating. Some people responded as if I had undergone an actual tragedy which made me realize how meaningless it all was in the end. So I lost a bunch of files and had to redo a lot of work, big whoop, it was hardly a true life emergency like a family member’s illness or death. I do worry that we’ve grown too dependent on technology and modern conveniences. I’ve noticed that when we can’t immediately reach people on their cell phones these days we tend to go nuts, as if the entire planet must be at our beck and call at all times. Remember not so long ago when we had to leave messages on people’s home answering machines and wait for them to call us back? Or before that, when we just had to try again later or write a letter?

Theresa: Writing about the experience led you into a revelry about your sister and brother-in-law, who dressed up as Amish people for Halloween, but were wary of being seen as making fun of them. Then you started making fun of Amish people yourself. I grew up near Lancaster, PA which is in Amish country. My sister wanted to be Amish. (I think she still does.) Wait a minute, my son’s watching “Arthur” right now and Buster is touring an Amish farm and making friends with an Amish kid. What’s up with the Amish-a-thon? Have you ever been stuck behind a horse and buggy on an Interstate?

Danny: Yes, I have, and I admit that it irritated me to no end. I always have very non-PC thoughts like “Oh, stop it already, and get a damn car!” But as I’ve written about several times, I am strangely drawn to closed-knit orthodox communities like the Amish or Chasidic Jews who cling to their old-world ways. It seems very attractive to me (clearly defined roles, less decisions to make on a daily basis) even though I know I’d quickly rebel against their strict rule structure. I’ve been fascinated by the Amish since I saw “Witness” in 1985 and had the hots for Kelly McGillis (whatever happened to her)? Of course I should never make fun of Amish people on my blog but at least they’ll never see it since they can’t use computers!

I think it’s cool that “Arthur” had Amish people on one of its episodes. Isn’t that the same show that got into trouble a few years ago when Arthur’s rabbit friend Buster Baxter met two kids in Vermont who had lesbian parents? I remember how our idiot Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings demanded that PBS return any federal funds that were used for the production of that episode even though there was no sexual content in it at all, just some real kids who had two moms. You go, Arthur!

Theresa: Did you catch the firestorm on writer Catherine Newman’s blog when she referred to herself as a finalist in the World's biggest Jew contest? She titled her response “Jew eat yet?” Is that like an inside joke? I've never heard that reference other than on your blog.

Danny: Theresa, don’t tell me you’ve never seen “Annie Hall!” What are they doing to you people up there in Alaska? Rent it immediately if you haven’t had the pleasure, you are in for a treat (a much bigger one than watching Woody Allen’s latest film which explores his new obsession with people getting away with murder). “Jew eat yet?” comes from that wonderful Oscar-winning film. I love the line even though I’m still slightly embarrassed whenever anyone asks me the title of my blog.

I did check out the Catherine Newman “controversy” and thought those people who complained about her use of “oy” were truly insane. I will say that word whenever I feel like (I don’t think I’ve written a single post without it) and I will call myself the “world’s biggest Jew” whenever I please. Can the people who get upset about such stuff start channeling their outrage to issues that would actually benefit from a groundswell of anger? Oy, oy, oy.

Theresa: You’ve been published on Salon, one of the innovators of online content. What’s your history with the web-based magazine and are you a premium member?

Danny: I was involved with Salon very early on in what now seems like the Paleozoic Era of the World Wide Web. There was an editor there who liked my work but she left in the late 90s to work on her own book and I’ve forgotten her name (can you see how great my “networking” skills are)? I admit I haven’t logged onto Salon in years—I think I lost interest the minute they started charging for the privilege. But I just took a look and was able to read several interesting articles without coughing up a cent so maybe they changed their policy. I will bookmark the site and try to catch up.

Theresa: And then there’s the Huffington Post. I haven’t hung out there much. What kind of community is that?

Danny: I like Arianna Huffington and the editors at the Huffington Post but I haven’t posted there in a while. To be honest, I find my own blog community much less scary than the often rabid Huffington Post readers. I’ve generally had a good experience on that site but one post I wrote about circumcision generated so many hideous attacks on me (including a range of blatant anti-Semitic tirades) that I ended up deleting the whole thing from the site. It’s not that I can’t handle criticism, that’s fine, but I started getting vicious private emails including one that threatened my daughter. Yuck. There are great writers at Huffington, and most readers are respectful, but it also seems to attract a very vocal lunatic fringe that should seriously be institutionalized. It’s obviously a liberal-leaning site but the crazies are from both sides and believe me, the extreme lefties can be even worse than the right-wing Republicans. Overall, I think it’s a great place for information and dialogue, but it will be a cold day in hell before I write about circumcision again, I don’t need the tsuris.

Theresa: You’ve written extensively about the challenges and the triumphs of being a single dad (you’re married now) and having a mother whose “desserts rivaled science projects,” among other creative criticisms. You’ve also written about some of the reactions you get from your family after you write these things. What’s your routine when it comes to writing about family? Do you have anybody else look at these pieces or do you just trust your gut?

Danny: I normally just trust my gut but it’s tricky. I had a bad experience last year when I posted excerpts of some correspondence from the 1960s between one of my family members and my deceased grandfather. There was some emotionally charged stuff in the letters but I chose to view them as sociological artifacts from another time and I did not ask that person’s permission even though I was urged to do so by another family member who knew what I was writing. Several of my relatives were very upset by this violation of privacy and I see now that I was dead wrong, I would never do it again. Having a brother-in-law who is well known in some circles also makes me a little cautious. My sister just told me that when you do a Google image search of her husband these days, the third photo that comes up is a photo she took of him in their kitchen wearing an impromptu Play-Doh Hitler moustache. I posted that last year as a statement about the criticism I thought Wilco was unfairly getting for allowing their songs to be used in a few Volkswagen commercials but now underneath this out-of-context image on Google is my sarcastic line, “Jeff Tweedy IS a Nazi!” Yikes. I have no doubt that this photo floating around the Internet will come back to bite him in the butt at some point—maybe when he’s being vetted by the Secret Service after being invited to perform at Barack Obama’s inauguration. Sorry for ruining your chance to play at the White House, Jeff!

Theresa: Why is writing about our own families so compelling? Do you think we’re trying to learn something about ourselves or just tap into a familiar framework? You know, something like, “Family, Um. What is it good for? At least everyone’s got one.”

Danny: One of the most frequently repeated quotations about family that you’ll find on the Internet is from my wife Kendall Hailey’s book, “The Day I Became an Autodidact.” She said, “The great gift of family life is to be intimately acquainted with people you might never even introduce yourself to, had life not done it for you.” Boy, is that true, and yet the lessons we can learn from our family members and from reviewing the agonies and ecstasies of childhood are endless. No matter what I start writing about, I usually end up talking about my family, and I seem to frequently return to the period in the early 1970s when my family was imploding under the weight of my parents’ ugly divorce. Do you think I have some unresolved issues there?

Theresa: The Internet is a big, bad place. You’ve blogged about some of the land mines, including people taking information about your famous brother-in-law from your blog. What are your ten commandments of Internet etiquette?

Danny: Interesting question. I’ve never really minded when people take stuff from my blog (including images since I steal so many myself) but I’ve been surprised to see my blog used as an actual source in two newspaper articles. In both cases, the reporters never contacted me and frankly, they should have—I freely admit that my version of events may take detours from journalistic “truth” if such a thing exists. No, the only thing that bothers me is the anonymous ugliness that can so quickly erupt on the Internet. Here are five commandments (I’m worried that I’m already going on way too long and breaking most people’s commandments about the desired length of blog posts!):

1. Thou shalt not shit on someone else’s living room floor. Disagree with a blogger all you want, rant and rave, but do so with a modicum of dignity of respect and don’t do it anonymously. Don’t write things that you wouldn’t have the balls to say that person face-to-face.

2. If you break this commandment, thou shalt not evoke the First Amendment when your offensive bullshit is deleted. Trust me, a blogger’s decision whether to keep your ravings on his or her site has nothing whatsoever to do with free speech issues. Don’t believe me? Call the ACLU!

3. Honor thy neighbor’s blog and do not post spam disguised as real comments. I’ve been getting lots of these lately. “That was such an interesting post, you are a great writer and I love reading your blog. Hey, by the way, I just found this really cool website where you can get Viagra at wholesale prices. Here’s the URL…” DELETE! For that matter, don’t ever send people chain letters or appeals for dying or lost children (they are ALL bogus) or ways to make money fast. Are there really people stupid enough to think that they will get a reward from the Nigerian Royal Family for helping them out? Then why am I still getting these emails?

4. Thou shalt not whine about not getting enough comments. Eek, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

5. Thou shalt engage in fruitful conversations. If you are touched in some way by a blog post or think you have something to contribute to the conversation, by all means, post a comment! And I say this not because of my own pathetic neuroses about getting comments but because to me that’s one of the most exciting elements of the blogosphere. It’s the people who write comments on a blog who create the wonderful online communities we all love (despite the occasional psychos who muck things up). I read some blogs more for the comments than the posts! I’ve never understood bloggers who don’t allow comments on their sites—that strikes me as arrogant and superior. On the other hand, people who leave a comment should do so because they are so moved, not merely to get someone to read their own blog.

Theresa: One last question, you’re an Oscar fanatic. You’re going with Daniel Day-Lewis and director Paul Thomas Anderson for “There Will Be Blood.” I just saw the flick, but I didn’t understand why Lewis’ character was so angry. Or does that even matter?

Danny: I have such a love-hate relationship with awards shows and the Oscars is no exception. You’re right that I’m a fanatic but my predictions are often a confusing blend of what I think deserves to win versus what I think the stodgy Academy voters will choose. That said, I did like “There Will Be Blood” but I’d be hard-pressed to articulate the motivations for Daniel Day-Lewis’ character. I just know that it was the kind of acting tour-de-force that the Academy loves. I was also drawn to this film because of my passionate interest in L.A. history. Lewis’ Daniel Plainview was loosely based on the life of famous southern California oil man Edward Doheny. Parts of the films, including the horrifying ending, were shot at Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills, a house that was built by Doheny for his son.

Whenever I feel I’m starting to take the Oscars too seriously, I think of some of the people we know who are Academy voters. They are just regular schmoes, like you and me, and most have no greater insights than we do about what is a worthy performance or an important piece of filmmaking. I’ll definitely be watching on February 24th, screaming at my set when I disagree, meting out judgment about how presenters perform or about the sincerity of the winners’ speeches, and making snarky comments about how people are dressed or why they were even invited to the festivities. I do believe that these awards send the wrong competitive message about art, I hate that we set up these false constructs where we think it’s legitimate to compare apples and oranges, and yet I am a sucker for the drama, history, and glitz of such events, as was clear in my fawning experience at the Grammys last weekend. I guess the best I can do is acknowledge that we all know these awards shows are a crock of shit, but accept that they’re also fun and exciting so let’s enjoy them anyway.

Thanks for the great questions, Theresa. Sorry I went on so long—if this had been my Oscar acceptance speech, the orchestra would have started playing during my first answer. I look forward to keeping up with your great blog!

Grammy Night

We weren’t supposed to attend the actual Grammy show on Sunday night but at a record label dinner for Wilco on Saturday a Warner Bros. executive overheard Leah moaning about how much she wanted to go and got us two great seats that a friend of his wasn’t using. What a blast it was to find ourselves at the Staples Center with all those music industry glitterati (and the scary glitterati wannabes). Being the 50th anniversary of the awards, they had an unbelievable group of talent on that stage, and despite my intense cynicism of such shows, I had a fantastic time even though Wilco was robbed of the Grammy for Best Rock Album. I tend to be somewhat limited in the music I listen to, sticking with my tried-and-true favorites, but watching this event (which was more of a concert than an awards show since only a handful of actual Grammys are awarded during the live telecast), I found my musical tastes being stretched every which way.

Everyone glammed up for the event. My sister had her make-up done by Helen Mirren’s stylist who provided my favorite quote of the day. When some of the other band members asked when the stylist would be coming down to their room, she said, “I need to stick around for a few minutes to see how her face settles.” Brilliant. Sue’s face settled just fine, thank you, and it was crazy to see her and Jeff sitting right by the stage among so many music legends including the Beatles contingent. My 13-year-old daughter was a knockout in a floor-length red gown and was so excited to be there that she was texting everyone she knew during the show. The outfits we saw ranged from classy to sizzling to gravity-defying to WTF?? I saw one guy who was clearly trying too hard with gold face paint, curlers in his hair, and teddy bears pinned all over his primary color suit. Huh? Many of the women’s dresses seemed tamer than in previous years but there was certainly no shortage of sequins, feathers, or exposed skin. It was such a cleavage-fest that Leah and I were eventually reduced to blatantly staring at the pushed-up bazongas that surrounded us on all sides. Jeff’s publicist was back stage during the show and told us how she watched Beyonce’s stylist help get her into one of the many gowns she wore during the show. After putting the dress on, the man reached both hands in, got a firm grip on Beyonce’s breasts, and then hiked them up as far as they would go. Um…would it be inappropriate for me to apply for this job for next year? It’s a tough assignment but someone’s gotta do it…

Oy, with apologies to all my female readers for that momentary display of piggishness (but, hey, it’s Beyonce, cut me some slack!), here are a few highlights and lowlights of the 2008 Grammys:

THE BEST:

Honoring music’s past superstars. I know those numbers with dead people have been done time and again but I loved the opening duet of “Learnin’ the Blues” with Alicia Keys and Frank Sinatra, I thought it set just the right tone for the 50th anniversary show and that they nailed it beautifully—it looked like the black-and-white image of Frank was leaning against Alicia’s piano. To be honest, I know Alicia Keys has been around for years but I think it was the first time I ever heard her sing a note and I was duly impressed. I also got a kick out of the Kid Rock/Keely Smith duet of “That Old Black Magic.” I hadn’t seen Smith since she was the mystery guest on “What’s My Line” in 1964 and it was cool to have her on the show since she sang that song at the first Grammy presentation with her husband Louis Prima. I’ve always found Kid Rock to be a bit creepy and yet I’m somehow fascinated by him. I enjoyed his weird sexually-tinged repartee with Keely Smith even though Keely seemed a little confused and Kid Rock completely messed up the song.

Acknowledging mother loss. I can’t say I’m a big fan of Kanye West and his supersized ego, and when he first came out on the stage I had a hard time getting past his glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and jacket that made him look like a character from the Disney movie “Tron.” But when he launched into a heartfelt version of his song “Hey, Mama,” I was moved to tears. Make that loud, audible sobbing. With some of the lyrics retooled to reflect his mother’s recent death (“Last night I saw you in my dreams/Now I can’t wait to go to sleep”), I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house, and despite his bravado, this number was as real as it gets even with the odd floating angel on the video screen behind him. I also loved how he shamed the orchestra to stop playing exit music when he was talking about his mom (“It would be in good taste to stop doing that right now”) but did he have to announce how much he deserved to win the other awards? He said that he and Amy Winehouse both deserved to win Album of the Year (so much for the other nominees). I guess the Grammy voters didn’t get that memo because neither of them won the top prize which, in the only true shocker of the evening, went to Herbie Hancock’s jazz tribute to Joni Mitchell.

Rehab from rehab. I’m more familiar with Amy Winehouse’s drug and alcohol troubles than I am with her music so I didn’t know what to expect during her live performance from London. I also wondered if her rehab doctors had sanctioned her singing via satellite on the Grammys. Call me crazy, but playing at a rock club at 4 am doesn’t seem like a typical part of an addict’s recovery program. But man oh man, that woman killed. Her raw performance of “You Know I’m No Good” and “Rehab” (wink, wink) brought the house down and sent me straight to iTunes when I got home (which, after all, is the primary goal of these shows). She seemed genuinely moved when she won the award for Best Record and it was sweet seeing her clutching her little Jewish mother. Will I lose all my street cred (like I ever had any) if I mention that I thought Winehouse looked a lot like the young pre-“Funny Girl” Barbra Streisand, complete with wild hairstyle and bizarre eye makeup? The Danish contingent directly behind us was so excited every time Amy Winehouse won a Grammy that Leah had to put her fingers in her ears during their cheering. I hope Winehouse gets her act together, she has so much to offer.

Beyonce and Tina Turner create a fire hazard. What was that weird noise during the Beyonce/Tina Turner duet? Oh, that was the sound of my tongue hitting the floor. Has there ever been a greater level of HOTness on the Grammy stage, both from Miss Knowles and the 68-year-old Turner who is now officially retired but has not lost a smidgen of her talent, voice, charisma, or sex appeal? I loved every second of this tribute and get dizzy when I think of their supercharged version of “Proud Mary.” The only sour note came after they were finished. The audience was so revved up from this pairing that we wanted to bask in the glory of it for just a few moments. But the second Tina sang her final exquisite note, the ladies were summarily booted off the stage as Andy Williams trudged to the podium with Nelly Furtado and Roselyn Sanchez. Their inane banter managed to deflate the energy in the room from ecstasy to boredom in record time.

Aretha rules. And don’t you forget it. I would never want to be on Aretha Franklin’s bad side (today she dissed Beyonce for calling Tina Turner the Queen instead of her), but I’d happily sit in any audience that she graces with her supreme presence. We all know and love her pop hits, but hearing her channel her gospel roots with BeBe Winans was icing on the cake. As the gigantic video screen displayed a huge glowing cross, Franklin and Winans crooned “Never Gonna Break My Faith” and then were joined by a bunch of fabulous gospel groups I’d never heard of such as the Clark Sisters, Trin-I-Tee 5:7, and Israel and the New Breed. I believe, Aretha, I believe! And speaking of Aretha’s glory days, what a thrill to see Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard rocking on that stage. To quote me, my sister, and I’m guessing half of the crowd at the Staples Center: “I thought they were both dead!” but they were most definitely alive and still able to sell their hit songs with gusto and verve. Can you believe that Lewis is now 72 and Little Richard is 75? I also enjoyed seeing the always classy 81-year-old Tony Bennett and only wish he’d been allowed to sing a few bars.

THE WORST:

Lifetime awards fizzle. By far the most annoying part of the Grammys was the stupid way they presented the 2008 Lifetime Achievement Awards. What should have been a series of reverential moments for this year’s honorees (which included artists such as Doris Day, Cab Calloway, Earl Scruggs, Burt Bacharach, and Itzchak Perlman) instead came off as a disrespectful dismissal of these great talents. Presenter Tom Hanks started off the confusion by presenting the first award to The Band but then switched in mid-sentence to his introduction of a Beatles medley by Cirque de Soleil and the cast of “Across the Universe.” I wracked my brain trying to figure out the connection between the two groups until I realized there was none, they were just on to something else. Would it have killed the Grammy producers to come up with 30-second clips for each of the lifetime award winners? I say give out less of those awards each year and have current performers pay tribute to these folks. How about a little “Que sera sera” sung by Alicia Keys for God’s sake? The presentation of those awards was consistently awful and cringe-producing.

Prince, you’re closer to Sinatra’s age than you think. Okay, I admit it, I never “got” Prince. Don’t yell at me, but I always enjoyed our friend Fred Armisen’s send-up of the Artist on “Saturday Night Live” far more than watching the Purple One himself. Maybe I misinterpreted the joke but I resented Prince’s crack following the Alicia Keys/Frank Sinatra duet: “He looks pretty good for someone who’s 150 years old.” Okay, Mr. 24-inch-waist, first of all, Sinatra’s been dead for seven years but if he were alive he’d be 92. I’ve got news for you, bub, you’re getting up there yourself, I wouldn’t be so quick with the age jokes. You’ll be turning 50 this year, which in your industry makes you close to Moses’ age.

Does anyone care about what’s going on in the world? No one wants an awards show that is bathed in self-righteous preachiness. Believe me, I could care less what Rihanna or Carrie Underwood think about world events, but I was a bit surprised by the complete absence of political awareness during the broadcast. Only comedian George Lopez mentioned the upcoming election with a non-PC retro joke about how Clinton or Obama needs to choose a Mexican Vice President. Oy. Oh, and Herbie Hancock did evoke Obama’s “Yes, We Can” mantra. I didn’t see any ribbons on display for AIDS or breast cancer awareness, or any other causes du jour. I suppose it’s just as well—let the Grammys be what they are: a self-serving congratulatory lovefest from the music industry to itself. Still, it’s worth noting that Barack Obama actually won a Grammy on Sunday for his audio recording of “The Audacity of Hope.” He beat out Bill Clinton for the award just a few hours after trouncing Hillary in the Maine Caucus. An omen of things to come?

Everyone please stay in your seats! The show’s not over! In one of the few technical mis-steps, the ending of Grammy broadcast was a big bomb. Herbie Hancock finished his acceptance speech and the monitors cut to a commercial. Often during the commercial breaks an announcer would tell us what was happening, when they were coming back from the break, but this time there was nothing so it just seemed like an anti-climactic ending to an exciting evening. People started swarming out of the Staples Center in droves, when finally a meek voice came on the speakers saying, “Oh, please don’t go yet. We still have Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band coming up!” Oops. Apparently the Cirque de Soleil was going to perform this bit during the closing credits. Leah and I stayed to watch but half the crowd had already left. It was times like this when they really needed a host. I say hire Jon Stewart or Ellen Degeneres next year, Grammy people. My sister took this cool photo of the confetti that poured down during the closing number.

Despite any criticism I may have, I have to say how impressed I was at how smoothly things went. The set changes were extremely complicated and yet most went off without a hitch. I’m amazed at how calm and collected all the performers seemed during their numbers even though chaos often ruled seconds before the end of the commercial break. Bravo, Grammys, even if my brother-in-law was robbed of the award! My nephews didn’t come out from Chicago for the show but their friends were very supportive. When Sammy went to school yesterday, many of his second grade classmates referred to the Foo Fighters, the band that won the Grammy over Wilco, as the “Poo Fighters!”

Kendall met us for the crazy after-party at the old St. Vibiana’s Cathedral in downtown L.A. Once again we got to walk the red carpet, trailing behind Wilco and causing the crowds of reporters and photographers to give us those wonderfully irritated looks that say “Who the hell are YOU and what are you doing here?” Unlike the last Grammy after-party we attended years ago at Warner Bros. Studios, which was packed full of long tables containing all manner of gourmet delicacies, this party was low on the grub, at least for the likes of us. Servers would walk by with small trays of mini-Kobe burgers or goat cheese tartlets and we’d attack them like we were World War II refugees. The booze was free-flowing but Kendall and I were starving to the point where we wanted to shout, “Who do you have to f*ck around here to get a shrimp?” We finally found a balcony at the party that contained a lot more food but were stopped on the stairs by some burly guards who asked us who we were. Apparently you had to be a bona fide star to merit entry to this buffet line. With our mouths watering, we gazed over the man’s shoulder to watch Natalie Cole devouring a plate of desserts. “Hey, Natalie, can you toss us a red velvet cupcake?” Speaking of the “Unforgettable” Miss Cole, I was a little surprised to hear her diss Amy Winehouse and her five Grammy wins. “I don’t think she deserved it,” the former Grammy winner told a reporter. “I think she needs to get her life together first and then get the awards later.” Oh, Natalie, Natalie, if having your life together is a prerequisite for such an honor, we better set up a toll-free number to facilitate the return of nearly every Grammy, Oscar, or Emmy ever awarded.

My Interview with Arjewtino

Being the loner and control freak that I am, I usually shy away from online group activities. But Neil Kramer of Citizen of the Month gets me every time. Something about his blog brings out another side of me. I am far more obnoxious in my comments on his blog than I am anywhere else, I have blatantly flirted with his wife on his own website, and I have participated in his various online be-ins such as his annual blogger holiday concert (in which you can hear me sing in French, Hebrew, and English!). Neil is like the Pied Piper of the blogosphere. His latest group exploit is the Great Interview Experiment in which readers who agree to participate are interviewed by the preceding person on the list and then they interview the person who happens to follow their name. Well over 300 people have signed up for this experiment and the results are diverse and fascinating (Neil has provided links to all the published interviews here.)

I was assigned to interview a blogger who goes by the name Arjewtino. I had never read his blog before but I was happy to discover it. Arjewtino is a hip blogger who was born in Argentina (his Jewish parents moved there from Europe just after World War II, a curious fact that I’d like to hear more about considering Argentina was also a well known haven for former Nazis). They moved to southern California when Arjewtino was a young boy and today he lives in Washington, D.C. Unlike me, he doesn’t reveal his actual name on his blog and he calls his girlfriend “The Princess.”

I enjoy his writing style and feel we have a lot in common even though he just returned from a week-long stint at the Dodgers baseball fantasy camp for adults. The closest I ever got to baseball camp was attending crowded screenings of “Bull Durham,” “Field of Dreams,” and “The Bad News Bears.” Let’s just say I was not in line for MVP status on the baseball fields of my youth. But I did get to attend a lot of Cubs games back in the day because my grandfather’s clothing store was one of their sponsors. Here’s my grandfather with baseball great Willie Mays (not a Cub, of course) who I got to meet along with other stars such as Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Jack Brickhouse, and Lou Boudreau.(Hey, Arjewtino, maybe you can teach me how to throw a baseball one day—as long as you promise not to laugh at my current technique.)

Danny: Your trip to Dodgers baseball camp sounds like a dream come true. I’m trying to think of a sports question that won’t reveal my total ignorance on the subject but I can’t so I’ll simply ask what it’s like to live out a fantasy that you’ve had all your life.

Arjewtino: The grand experiment known as the United States of America continues to succeed because we are told repeatedly that we can accomplish anything with hard work. This is bullshit. Not all of us can live out our fantasies. Nor should we.

Imagine a world where everyone’s dreams came true. What would happen to all the strippers or garbage men? Who would clean our gutters or manufacture our shoelaces?

We need people to fail so that we can succeed. Thomas Jefferson knew this. That’s why he knocked up his slave.

Danny: You’re clearly a cool blogger, but are you a neurotic one? Have you ever had weird feelings about people who are close to you who have no interest in or have never even looked at your blog? Do you ever fret about the number of comments you receive on your posts?

Arjewtino: Remember that scene in “Superman III” when Christopher Reeve fights his “evil” self in a junkyard for some reason? That is what it feels like to be a blogger. The “real me” fighting against the “evil blogger me.” That is, I have to fight the urge to care about how many comments I get or how much site traffic I’m receiving or how many people subscribe to my feed. And I have to do it in a junkyard known as the Internet.

People think they know you because they read your words on a Web site. But the truth is, the “real you” is much more boring and probably a lot scarier than readers might realize.

Especially when Richard Pryor is out to get you.

Danny: When I lived in Chicago, I remember eating at a number of excellent Argentinean restaurants. Now that I live in L.A., can you help me out? I know you used to live here, do you know where I can get the real deal? (I assume you wouldn’t call Gaucho Grill a true representative of your people’s cuisine.)

Arjewtino: I used to wait tables at Gaucho Grill when I lived in L.A. I liked working there because the tips were decent and I got to take home as much free bread as I wanted. I got fired, though, when I took an unscheduled day off to see my girlfriend.

That’s the danger with going to Argentinean restaurants. We might not show up to work and there might not be any bread for you to eat. But if you must go, I highly recommend Buenos Aires Grill in Northridge.

Danny: You’re surprised that they’re making a musical about Anne Frank? I’ve got news for you, bro, they already made one in 1985. It was called “Yours, Anne” and I am one of the few people on the planet who admit to seeing it. I still torture my wife with the song Peter Van Daan sang called “I Am Not a Jew!” I get that you’re not a big musicals fan (and I’m not even asking about “Evita”) but do you have any positive experiences with this art form that you can share? (Okay, I have to say it—with that moustache you like to sport, you’d make a killer “Che” in “Evita.” Maybe the Princess can put on a big dress and play Eva Peron. Don’t tell me that’s not a fantasy you two have shared!)

Arjewtino: The only musical I went to see that I liked was “Phantom of the Opera.” I begged my dad to take me for my 15th birthday. On a separate note, my mom thought I was gay until I brought home a girl when I was 18.

Eva is not only the name of the famous Argentine First Lady, but it also my mom’s name. I think that clearly answers your last question.

Danny: Speaking of Argentina, do you think that people born in countries other than the U.S. tend to have a better grasp on our world? When you were little, what’s the dumbest thing you ever heard an American friend say about Argentina?

Arjewtino: The most common thing people asked me was, “If you’re from Argentina, then why are you white?” They just didn’t get that my country systematically killed off the indigenous people who were there first in order to make room for the Spanish, Italians, Germans, and British.

The answer to the first question is obvious. The United States fosters a “me-first/the sun revolves around us” social curriculum. This explains why the baseball championship is called the World Series. I do think other countries teach their citizens about the outside world much better than we do. But I don’t blame the U.S. for this. I blame Heavy Metal. And Skittles.

Danny: Since you brought up sexy Jennifer Tilly, who is turning 50 this year, and that awful word “cougar” which stands for older women who like to date younger men, can you name a well known woman over 50 that you would like to date?

Arjewtino: During fantasy Dodgers camp, I developed a huge crush on the 50-something-year-old bartender named Fran. I spent most evenings flirting with her. Then she told me she planned on voting for John McCain and the crush vanished.

As far as a well-known older woman? If I couldn’t have Jennifer Tilly, I’d have to go with Judi Dench. I bet she’s mad crazy in the sack.

Danny: Love the Alyssa Milano encounter but the Alfonso Ribeiro, Scott Valentine, and Vanilla Ice references were a little scary. I am constantly dropping names on my blog so I’d like to hear one more celebrity story. Who have you run into that excited you?

Arjewtino: During her first visit to L.A. several years ago, the Princess said she wanted to see one thing: a celebrity. A few days into the visit, we were hanging in the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica when my sister told us that Ted Danson was having dinner inside a restaurant. I told the Princess that we would walk by and get a better look but that she had to be cool.

“Don’t act starstruck,” I told her. “That’s SO embarrassing.”

But as we walked past Ted Danson eating dinner with wife Mary Steenburgen and their kids, I was the one who got all excited. I squeezed the Princess’ hand tightly and not-so-softly whispered, “Oh my god, that’s Ted Danson!” If the Princess hadn’t been there to drag me out of the restaurant, I’m pretty sure I would have stopped to ask him all about Cheers and if he still talked to George Wendt.

Danny: I always wondered if native speakers of other tongues had the Henry Higgins-like ability to identify dialects in their own language. When you hear someone speak Spanish, can you immediately tell what country they’re from? Without getting you into trouble, are there some accents that make your skin crawl and others that you find the most pleasing?

Arjewtino: That is a very astute question, Danny. I can totally pick up on an Argentine accent. In fact, the closer an accent is to Argentina, the easier I can tell where someone is from. For example, I can tell if someone is from Uruguay or Chile but Venezuela would give me trouble.

Mexicans also speak differently from, say, Guatemalans, so that kind of Spanish is easy to detect. The one accent I hate, though, has to be that of the Spaniards. That royal lisp sounds like nails on the chalkboard.

Danny: I like everything I’ve heard about the Princess. Since you’re an atheist Hebe, I doubt you’re pressuring her to convert. But I’d like to hear you make a brief argument in favor of her converting as well as an argument against it.

Arjewtino: I once asked the Princess if she would convert to Judaism for me and she said, “I would if I thought it was important to you.” That might be a calculated bluff, but it’s really not important to me. My parents were hippies who believed in love, not religion, so they never ingrained that aspect of my Jewish culture into me.

If it were important to me, though, I would argue that if she converted then she would get Yom Kippur off. Of course, then she’d have to starve herself. On the plus side, she’d get all her sins forgiven in one go.

Danny: Besides George W., what American politician do you think has done the most damage to this country and why? (This can be from any era.)

Arjewtino: You really can’t get worse than Dubbya. The man actually said these words: “"If this were a dictatorship, it would be a heck of a lot easier, just so long as I'm the dictator."

But if I had to choose, I’d go with the comically corrupt Warren Harding. He got elected thanks only to his backroom buddies, was involved in the Teapot Dome scandal, and couldn’t even finish his term in office when he died after eating some bad fish.

Even he knew he was an idiot. He once said, “"I am not fit for this office and should never have been here."

Thanks, Arjewtino! And I’m looking forward to those baseball lessons.

In Defense of Thelma Ritter

Today is the anniversary of the death of my all-time favorite character actress: Thelma Ritter. On February 5, 1969, Ritter died at the age of 66 in Queens Hospital after suffering a heart attack a week earlier.

The actress was already 45 years old when she made her first film. When director George Seaton went to New York to film the classic "Miracle on 34th Street,"€ he called Ritter, a family friend, and asked her to take a tiny part as the exhausted mother of a little boy in line at Macy'€™s to meet Santa. Ritter ends up fighting with the bearded old man when he promises the boy new skates for Christmas. Her second film role, in Joseph Mankiewicz'€™s "A Letter to Three Wives"€ was also brief and uncredited and also made a huge impact. Mankiewicz thought of Ritter the following year and cast her as Birdie, the veteran theatre actress who works for Bette Davis'€™ Margo Channing in the near-perfect "All About Eve."€ I say "€œnear-perfect"€ because my one complaint about "All About Eve"€ has always been that the character of Birdie inexplicably disappears midway through the film. But when she'€™s there, she steals just about every scene. When Anne Baxter's Eve Harrington first meets the gang in Margo'€™s dressing room, everyone buys the sad, tragic tale of her life and her seemingly innocent idol worship of Margo. Everyone but Birdie, that is. After Eve brings the group to tears with stories of her dead soldier husband and how she found a reason to live by going to see Margo Channing'€™s performance every night at the theatre, Ritter's Birdie breaks the spell with the following perfectly delivered line: "€œWhat a story! Everything but the bloodhounds snappin' at her rear end!"

The banter between Davis and Ritter as Margo and Birdie is perfect in every scene:

Margo Channing: You bought the new girdles a size smaller, I can feel it.
Birdie: Something maybe grew a size larger.
Margo Channing: When we get home you're going to get into one of those girdles and act for two and a half hours.
Birdie: I couldn'€™t get into the girdle in two and a half hours.

Later, just before Ritter disappears from the film, Margo questions Birdie about her dislike of Eve.

Margo Channing: Birdie, you don'€™t like Eve, do you?
Birdie: You looking for an answer or an argument?
Margo Channing: An answer.
Birdie: No.
Margo Channing: Why not?
Birdie: Now you want an argument.

Thelma Ritter didn'€™t write that brilliant dialogue, of course, but she delivered every line she was given with such expertise and comic timing that she always left you wanting more, more, more! Ritter got a much deserved Academy Award nomination for "€œAll About Eve"€ and five other supporting actress nominations in her career. She never won the award but she was highly respected in Hollywood. Alfred Hitchcock recognized her talents and cast her as Jimmy Stewart'€™s physical therapist in "Rear Window."€ In addition to helping him with his broken leg, Ritter'€™s Stella freely dispenses advice to Stewart'€™s Jeff, particularly about his gorgeous girlfriend Lisa played by Grace Kelly. Again, every line that comes out of Ritter's mouth is a gem.

Stella: When two people love each other, they come together—WHAM!—like two taxis on Broadway.
Jeff: She wants me to marry her.
Stella: That'€™s normal.
Jeff: I don'€™t want to.
Stella: That's abnormal.

Hitchcock hired Ritter again in 1956 to play the lead in an episode from his spooky TV anthology, "Alfred Hitchcock Presents." I saw her episode, called "€œThe Baby Sitter,"€ just last week and loved every minute of it. When I logged onto the Internet Movie Database to read up on the rest of the cast, I was shocked to find a recent comment from a registered user of the site that described the episode as follows: "€œOver-acting ridiculously as always, Thelma Ritter is a thoroughly classless mess and ruins any potential this one may have had. I did watch it to the end, though, so I must be some sort of masochist."€ Flabbergasted by this commenter'€™s review, I went through the laborious process of registering on IMDb just so I could respond.

"€œWhat? Thelma Ritter is a '€˜thoroughly classless mess?'€™ As far as I'm concerned, Ritter lifts every film or TV show she'€™s in, including this one which I just watched. Her comic timing, delivery, and poignancy can't be beat. I find her believable in every scene here. I think the previous commenter is objecting more to the script than the performance. As far as Ritter goes, I think she is one of the most underrated actresses of our time."€

Oh well, I hope my passion came through at least! If only I could muster up the same level of enthusiasm for the candidates in today's Super Tuesday Presidential Primary. On second thought, I hereby declare Barack Obama the Thelma Ritter of the 2008 campaign: inspiring, amazingly talented, and able to deliver every line with perfect precision. I name Hillary Clinton the Anne Baxter of the campaign: articulate, skilled, and worthy, but exhibiting opportunistic and ruthless tendencies. And while I'€™m on my "All About Eve"€ bender, I'€™ll declare John McCain the George Sanders of the race. Like Sanders'€™ character Addison DeWitt, McCain knows how to turn a phrase for maximum effect and can skillfully appeal to the masses, but it's important that we all take a long look at his overall goals and self-serving agenda. Okay, now I'€™ve really lost it (and I may have to nominate this post as my gayest one of the new year)!

I can'€™t think of a single Thelma Ritter performance I didn'€™t love, even when I despised the movie. She was great in films like "€œThe Mating Season," "Daddy Long Legs,"€ and "€œThe Proud and the Profane;"€ she added priceless comedy bits to two Doris Day movies, "€œPillow Talk" and "Move Over, Darling;" and she managed to hold her own beautifully with co-stars Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, and Montgomery Clift in Arthur Miller'€™s "The Misfits."€ Ritter received her final Oscar nomination in 1962 as Burt Lancaster'€™s mother in "€œThe Birdman of Alcatraz."

Though passed over by the Motion Picture Academy, Thelma Ritter won a Best Actress Tony Award in 1958 for "New Girl in Town"€ (in a rare tie with her co-star Gwen Verdon) and an Emmy Award for the original TV version of Paddy Chayefsky's "€œThe Catered Affair."€ Following her death, Chayefsky wrote a poignant tribute to the actress in the New York Times:

I did one show with Thelma Ritter, a television play called "The Catered Affair,"€ an unfocused piece in which the first act was farce and the second was character-comedy, and the third was abruptly drama. There aren'€™t a dozen actresses who could make one piece out of all that; Miss Ritter, of course, did. The fact is, she was never properly publicly recognized as an actress. She was blessed—€”or cursed—with a tough urban wit and a voice to match so she got all the gravelly Tenth Avenue parts. But anyone who saw her as Burt Lancaster'€™s rigidly obsessed mother in "€œBirdman of Alcatraz" got an idea of what this woman could do.

In my show, she was enormous, not the sort of epithet usually pinned on Miss Ritter, who was known particularly for the astringency of her performance. Her acting emotion had first to filter through that urban crust of hers before it exhibited itself externally. Her power as an actress was consequently one of depth. Even her sketchiest roles had this substance of human embattlement. Given a role with implications like Linda Darnell'€™s beer-swigging mother in "A Letter to Three Wives"€ or Marthy in "€œNew Girl in Town,"€ she revealed to her audience the tragedy of the human condition, which is the definition of great acting. She was a supreme comedian and a kind and gentle woman who was esteemed by everyone who ever worked with her.

In the end, that has to be, I suppose, the final tribute to an artist. She had become archetypical in her own profession; for many years now, there has been a wide range of women roles described by casting directors as "€œa Thelma Ritter type."€ She was a character actress, which means only that they don'€™t write many starring parts for middle-aged women. The point is, she was a great character actress, the best we had, and she was not expendable.

My Pyschic Encounter with Jack Ruby

I swear to you that I’m not one of those Kennedy conspiracy nuts. I found Oliver Stone’s “JFK” heavy handed and highly suspect, and while I don’t necessarily accept the pronouncements of the Warren Commission as the Final Word on the subject, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about alternative theories as to who killed President Kennedy in November 1963. Still, I’ve always felt that there was more to the Jack Ruby story than met the eye. It just seemed way too convenient that Ruby shot and killed Lee Harvey Oswald two days after the assassination—it smacked of getting the emotionally wrecked Oswald “out of the way.” But under whose orders? What the hell was Ruby doing in police headquarters as Oswald was being transferred to the county jail and why did he have a loaded handgun? When he was arrested at the scene of Oswald’s shooting, Jack Ruby said that he wanted to spare Jacqueline Kennedy the ordeal of appearing at Oswald’s trial. Hmmm.

Jack Ruby was clearly a shady character who probably had many underworld connections. Though initially sentenced to death for Oswald’s murder, he later met privately with Chief Justice Warren, Gerald Ford, and other members of the Warren Commission to plead his case. He said that his own safety was in jeopardy and that there was a lot more to the story than he had originally stated. If they would move him to a jail in Washington, he would feel safe enough to tell the truth. In 1966, he succeeded in getting the courts to overturn his death sentence and a new trial was arranged for February 1967. But Ruby suddenly became ill and was admitted to Parkland Hospital in Dallas, the very place where JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald were pronounced dead three years earlier. Turns out he had cancer. And a few weeks before his new trial was scheduled to begin, Jack Ruby died of a pulmonary embolism.

I could go on about my suspicions surrounding Jack Ruby, but since I’m not a conspiracy nut (honest!), I’m more interested right now in the possible connection my family may have to this guy. Here’s what happened this weekend to get me on this rant. I’ve been busy putting together an online photo archive of my family through this very cool site called SmugMug. I’ve been scanning tons of old family photographs and documents and placing them on this site for anyone in my family to access and download. My hope is that other family members will send me photos from their own collections to add to the archive so that we can create a much more comprehensive family history than any of us have individually. Among the photos I found in my possession was an image from a celebratory dinner in the mid-1950s. Here’s the photo:

There are my impossibly young parents third and fourth from the left on the side of the table closer to the camera. I don’t recognize anyone else in the photo except for my grandfather who is standing up and smiling at the camera with his arm around one of the dinner guests. Who is this guy? On the back of the photo are a few names written in my grandmother’s hand, all last names except for one: “Mr. Jack Ruby.” What? Could it be? I keep comparing the face of the man my grandfather is standing over with pictures of Jack Ruby from the time of the JFK assassination. It could be. I called my dad, as far as I know the only person in this photograph who is still alive. He remembers the event—a dinner in the mid-1950s following the grand re-opening of one of my grandfather’s Karoll’s Red Hanger Shops in Chicago. But why on earth would Jack Ruby be there? My father had no memory of meeting him, but since it was before he achieved his infamy as Oswald’s killer, why would he? I started doing some research on Ruby and realized how little I knew about him. I didn’t know he was born Jacob Rubinstein in Chicago. He changed his name to Ruby in 1947 and moved to Dallas, but his large family was still in the city. Did I mention that Ruby grew up right near my grandfather’s store at 63rd and Kedzie? Hmmm.

I logged onto the New York Times archives to look into Ruby’s background. There was no mention of Ruby in the paper prior to November 1963 but immediately after the shooting there were a bunch of articles telling of his Chicago background (he was always referred to as a Dallas strip club owner so I had forgotten the Chicago connection), his orthodox Jewish upbringing (hello?), and descriptions of his parents who came from a shtetl in Poland that was sometimes governed by the Soviet Union (just like where my family came from). He moved to Dallas in the late 40s to help his sister run a nightclub but had returned to Chicago six years before the assassination (about the time the photo of my parents was taken) to promote his new discovery, “a 12-year-old Negro boy who sang, danced, and played the piano.” I wonder who that kid was. Jack Ruby is described by his former colleagues and friends as someone with a hair trigger temper and delusions of grandeur. He is referred to as a street brawler from Chicago’s West Side Jewish “Ghetto.”

Although he was clearly no longer observant, how did I miss the fact that Ruby’s parents were orthodox Polish Jews? In the articles I found, Ruby’s siblings come to his defense. His brother Earl said that the speculation that there was some connection between Jack and Lee Harvey Oswald made him sick. “My brother is 100 percent American. No one in our family ever had any subversive ideas!” His sister echoed these sentiments. “He’s such a good Jew,” she said about Jack. “This [the shooting of Oswald] is something we don’t believe in. I don’t know what possessed him to do it.” People who worked with him painted a different picture. One described him as “neurotic and excitable at all times.” He said one of his strippers told him that Ruby had beaten her and that later Ruby had admitted he'd had the case quashed for $100. A reporter from the Dallas Morning News who knew him said Ruby was “a highly emotional man given to flashy dress and a desperate yearning for social acceptance.”

All circumstantial evidence pointed to the possibility that the man in the photo with my parents could easily be the Jack Ruby who shot Oswald. But I still hadn’t linked him to anyone directly associated with my family. I stopped reading the articles, but since I was already logged into the New York Times archives, I decided to do one more unrelated search. For some reason the person who popped into my head at that moment was the illustrious Rabbi Judah Leib Graubart from my family’s home town of Staszow, Poland. My great-grandfather, Itshe Meyer Korolnek, had brought him over soon after my family had emigrated to Toronto, and Rabbi Graubart had a brilliant career as a rabbi and scholar in Canada. Several of his children and grandchildren became famous rabbis in their own right. I’ve written about my family’s connections to the Graubarts several times and how intrigued I was that many of the ones who didn’t become rabbis went into show business including actress Judy Graubart and legendary Broadway producer Manny Azenberg who produced most of Neil Simon’s plays. As far as I knew, Rabbi Graubart had never lived in New York but maybe he was mentioned in some article about his rabbinical achievements. I put in the search and watched as one single article appeared. Here is the headline of that article:

What? Did I forgot to change my search term? Nope, the sole entry in the entirety of the New York Times archives that mentions a Rabbi Graubart was a 1967 piece about Jack Ruby’s funeral, officiated by the son of the great Toronto rabbi who was also a close friend of my family’s, Rabbi David Graubart, apparently the rabbi of Jack Ruby’s family.

What are the chances that my random search of someone I believed to be completely unrelated to Oswald’s killer would yield this article? I had no idea Ruby’s body had been flown back to Chicago to be buried in the cemetery where half my family is now interred. What kind of “coincidence” is that? Was there some memory of this connection in the deep recesses of my subconscious? Did I hear family members talking about it at the time of Ruby’s funeral when I was seven years old? To be honest, despite his dealings with the underworld, I think that Jack Ruby probably was just a small-time hustler who killed Oswald in the spur of the moment and not because he was ordered to. The mafiosos would have to be nuts to entrust someone like Ruby with the important task of silencing Oswald. But was there any connection between Oswald’s killer and my family? I’ll probably never know the answer to this meaningless mystery. Too bad I can’t recall the Warren Commission to look into it.

The Truman Show

When I wrote a post about my fascination with Presidential children a few years ago, Margaret Truman didn’t even get a mention. In my defense, I was only writing about the kids I personally remember being in the White House. Caroline and John-John played a role in my earliest memory (I was 4 years old when their dad was assassinated and watching his funeral on TV with my sobbing mother is burned into my brain) and I remained interested in all the progeny that followed: Luci and Lynda Bird, Tricia and Julie, Susan and her brothers, Amy and hers, Patti and Ron, Chelsea. Oh, and those two generations of Bush offspring I’d just as soon forget.

Margaret Truman, the only child of Harry and Bess Truman, died this week at the age of 83. That leaves Eisenhower’s 85-year-old son John as the last member of the Old Guard of Presidential spawn. His daughter-in-law Julie Nixon Eisenhower heads up the next tier of White House kids, now in their sixties. That group includes her sister, the Johnson girls, and Michael Reagan. They are followed by the fiftysomething Fords, the elder Bushes, the Carter boys, Caroline Kennedy, and Patti Davis. Ron Reagan turns 50 this year and Amy Carter just turned 40 (gulp!). The youngsters of the bunch are Chelsea and the Bush twins, still in their 20s. If Barack Obama wins the Presidency, he’d bring the youngest kids to the White House since JFK (as opposed to John McCain whose oldest child is exactly my age).

Though not particularly remembered as a feminist, Margaret Truman broke plenty of barriers in her day. Accounts of her early years in the White House reveal a self-assured young woman who was not willing to give up her own dreams to fit a predetermined mold. Margaret was a 21-year-old college student when her father became President (or as she used to put it, “after everything happened”) following Roosevelt’s death in 1945. She performed her duties as First Daughter without complaint but clearly did not relish her new fame. She used to refer to the White House as the Great White Jail. “You never feel at home in the White House,” she told a reporter. “Not if you have any sense.”

Margaret was considered the first “career girl” in the White House. Her opera ambitions were often dismissed as an exercise in nepotism but that was an unfair claim. Margaret had been serious about singing long before she ever dreamed her father would be President, and if anything, she felt that being a Truman hurt her career rather than helped it. She tried to sing under a different name but it was too late to go incognito. She wrote that rather than giving her a free ride because of her position, critics expected her to be better than the best merely to justify being on the stage.

When she sang in Constitution Hall in 1950, Paul Hume, the music critic for “The Washington Post,” praised her stage presence but reluctantly stated that “she cannot sing very well” and that she was “flat a good deal of the time.” In his now infamous reply, written in his own handwriting on White House stationery, President Truman roared to his daughter’s defense.

I have just read your lousy review buried in the back pages. You sound like a frustrated old man who never made a success, an eight-ulcer man on a four-ulcer job, and all four ulcers working…I never met you, but if I do you’ll need a new nose and plenty of beefsteak and perhaps a supporter below.

You go, Harry! Truman’s aides had begged the President not to send the letter but he wouldn’t listen. And though he was criticized by many (including Soviet editorialists and cartoonists who had a field day lampooning the exchange), most Americans were moved by the father’s sincere if brutish defense of his sweet daughter. Margaret herself seemed embarrassed by the whole episode, stressing that Hume was a fine critic who “has a perfect right to say whatever he thinks.” When pressed to comment on her daddy’s angry missive, she finally offered, “I’m glad to see that chivalry isn’t dead” but then made it quite clear that she’d spoken with the President and future critics were free to write whatever they liked about her abilities without fear of retribution from the White House. Revealingly, Bill Clinton kept a framed copy of Truman’s letter in the Oval Office during his own Presidency.

Realizing that her voice just wasn’t going to cut it in the opera world, Margaret switched to a career in broadcasting. She co-hosted a radio show with Mike Wallace for several years, appeared on television shows, and even did summer stock. Later in life, she became a successful biographer (she wrote books about both of her parents) and an acclaimed novelist. Beginning with “Murder at the White House,” she wrote a series of mysteries that took place in or around Washington. “My mother seems to have a strong opinion, often bad, of almost everyone in Washington,” one of her sons said. “That’s why she writes those murder mysteries; so she can kill them all off, one at a time.”

As far as I’m concerned, Margaret Truman was the model First Child. I’m glad that she had such a happy, successful life, especially since there has been no shortage of scandals and tragedies in the lives of Presidential children, right from the start. After his second oldest son, Charles, died in a drunken stupor, John Adams renounced him as a rake. Years later, when Charles' brother became President, the first President Adams grumbled, “No man who ever held the office of President would congratulate a friend on obtaining it.” John Quincy Adams had his own family problems. His oldest son, George Washington Adams, suffered severe mental problems and at 28 jumped to his death from a steamboat in Long Island Sound.

A bunch of Presidential children died tragically young. In 1853, just two months before Franklin Pierce took office, his young son Benjamin was killed before his eyes in a railroad accident. Mrs. Pierce was so devastated she didn’t even attend the inauguration. Mary Todd Lincoln never recovered from the death of her 11-year-old son, Willie. Quentin Roosevelt, the youngest son of Theodore Roosevelt, was killed in an air battle over France in 1918, the only Presidential son ever killed in action. After Calvin Coolidge, Jr. died from blood poisoning in 1924, his father wrote, “When he went, the power and the glory of the Presidency went with him, I don’t know why such a price was exacted for occupying the White House.” And, of course, John and Jackie Kennedy lost their infant son Patrick Bouvier Kennedy in 1963, just a few months before President Kennedy was assassinated.

Besides Quentin Roosevelt, other Presidential children went into battle. As a young boy, Frederick Grant accompanied his father onto the battlefield (I’m sure his mother was thrilled with that!) and was injured at Vicksburg at the age of 13! All of FDR’s sons served during World War II, as did John Eisenhower in Korea.

Of the current candidates, one of John McCain’s seven children is currently stationed in Iraq, a fact that McCain, to his credit, does not exploit. Asked why he rarely brings attention to his large family, McCain said it was intentional. “I just feel it's inappropriate for us to mention our children,” he told a reporter. “I wouldn’t want to seem like I’m trying to gain some kind of advantage. I just feel that it's a private thing.”

Chelsea Clinton grew up in the White House and despite her parents’ efforts to give her as normal a life as possible, she had to endure cruel attacks about her looks such as Rush Limbaugh’s repulsive 1992 “joke” when he showed a picture of her on his television show while talking about the White House dog. Chelsea seems to have weathered her White House years quite well, and if her mom gets elected she will obviously have a unique role in history as the only child of two Presidents. Barack Obama and his wife appropriately keep their daughters, ages 5 and 8, well out of the limelight. The Obama girls could conceivably find themselves coming of age in the White House, and I’m sorry for them that Margaret Truman won’t be around to offer some sage advice.

I wonder if a family like the Trumans could ever make it to the White House today. Harry Truman never went to college and he was certainly no millionaire. Margaret Truman never forgot her humble beginnings. “How can anybody be pretentious about something that is temporary?” she said about her White House years. “It never entered my mind that I or my parents were special people. We just weren’t.”