Jew Eat Yet?

It’s 1914—Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Is it too late to change my Oscar choice for Best Foreign Language Film? I still haven’t seen the winning South African film, “Tsotsi,” and I had been rooting for “Sophie Scholl,” a riveting story of German resistance during World War II. Last week I saw France’s entry, “Joyeux Noel,” and now I wish this film had won the coveted prize. Based on actual events that occurred during World War I, “Joyeux Noel” depicts an amazing but little publicized event that took place on Christmas 1914 following a bloody battle between the Allied Powers (France and Britain) and Germany.

Dug into their respective trenches on the western front, French, German, and Scottish troops hunker down on the eve of the holiday to enjoy their rations and dream of their loved ones at home. The first five months of the war have been more brutal than any of them could have imagined but they still hold out hope that the conflict will be over by spring. Among the German enlisted men is a famous opera singer, Nikolaus Sprink, whose girlfriend, a Danish soprano, has found a way to secret herself in for the night at great risk. When Sprink hears the Scottish soldiers playing Christmas carols on their bagpipes, he starts singing the German version of the song. Although forbidden to do so, he emerges from the trenches into “no man’s land,” still singing, armed with only a small Christmas tree in his hand. Soon the leaders of the three groups emerge as well and, without authorization from their superiors, agree to a temporary truce.

All of the troops then climb out of the trenches and start mingling with the men they were trying to slaughter the day before. With the dead bodies of their fallen comrades still laying between the trenches, the men share army-issue champagne and chocolate, look at pictures of each other’s families, and attend a group Christmas mass officiated by the Scottish chaplain at which the German tenor’s girlfriend sings a haunting rendition of “Ave Maria.” On Christmas Day the troops work together to bury their dead, followed by a friendly game of soccer. With knowledge of imminent air attacks from British and German planes, the soldiers move into each other’s trenches to stay out of harm’s way before returning to their pre-holiday positions.

If you think this sounds insanely idealistic, you’d be right—it is. But it really happened. At the beginning of the film we see German, French, and British schoolchildren reciting the catchy rhymes that cast their enemies as evil, inhuman savages who must be eliminated. Now, after facing some of the most deadly, vicious combat that 20th century technology could provide, some of the troops were losing faith in their generals who, from their safe perch, kept sending their compatriots to certain death. In some ways the soldiers could relate more to their also suffering peers in the enemy trenches than they could to their own superiors.

I think “Joyeux Noel” is one of the most powerful war films I’ve ever seen. Watching these men find the glimmers of humanity in their enemies and stage a defiant, if short-lived, act of peace, I wondered if such an approach could work in other conflicts. But the minute I tried to imagine the same event occurring thirty years later during World War II, my positive feelings about the soldiers’ courage took a nosedive. If a group of American or British soldiers called a friendly truce with a contingent of the Waffen-SS and started exchanging addresses and playing ball with the men dressed in full Nazi regalia, I think it would appear more treasonous than heroic. Especially if the Allied forces then sent the storm troopers on their merry way to continue their murderous campaign against the Jews and other persecuted groups in occupied Europe. While of course there were isolated cases of conscripted German soldiers who tried to help the victims of the Nazis, it is a much greater challenge for me to recognize the inherent humanity among card-carrying members of the Third Reich. And while the Germans may have also been our enemies during World War I, for some reason this group does not seem to be part of the same species as the bloodthirsty Nazi regime even though many future Nazis were among their ranks including one Corporal Adolf Hitler. In “Joyeux Noel,” however, the leader of the German troops (played by Daniel Bruhl from the film “Good-bye Lenin”) is a German Jew. What a difference a few decades would make.

I’d like to believe that my overall values are not so colored by personal experience or emotion but I know in many cases they are. I can feel for the German soldiers of World War I because I have no personal experience with “The Beastly Hun” and they did not specifically target my ancestors, but it's much more difficult to see past the Nazi uniforms of these soldiers’ sons and grandsons.

I’m not so naïve to think that the simplistic message of “Joyeux Noel” is one that can easily transfer to today’s troubled world. I don’t foresee any friendly soccer games between American troops and members of al-Qaeda or the Taliban. Nor do I see Israel and Hamas starting friendship clubs any time soon. But isn’t the first step to any lasting peace recognizing that people on both sides are fellow human beings and not vermin crawling the earth? We’ve all seen the atrocities that have occurred over the centuries when the opposite viewpoint is promoted.

Last week the young couple that rammed their car into a group of people on the sidewalk near my daughter’s school were arraigned. The accident killed Leah’s 24-year-old P.E. teacher and seriously injured eight students. I was shocked to learn that the male passenger was charged with second-degree murder but the female driver of the car was only charged with leaving the scene of a fatal crash and failing to provide assistance. If convicted, the 20-year-old driver can receive four years in jail. Her 19-year-old boyfriend can receive up to 15 years. The two acknowledge that they were having a heated argument just before the crash and apparently the authorities believe the woman’s claim that the passenger grabbed the steering wheel and caused the car to slam into the group. But doesn’t the woman bear some responsibility for the crash? Couldn’t she have pulled over or at least slowed down when she felt tensions rising dangerously in the car? I was surprised to feel these thoughts coming up. Was it revenge I wanted? I wonder how I’d feel if this was just a news story from another city. Would I have more compassion for this couple if I didn’t know the people who were hurt and killed? When Leah heard about the sentencing, her first thought was for the couple’s two-year-old child. She was devastated about the death of her teacher and sad about the other children who were hurt, but she couldn’t see how this couple going to jail for a long time would do any good. Wasn't it punishment enough that they'd have to live with the knowledge of what happened as a result of this tragic accident?

I talked about how there needs to be consequences for such reckless behavior and Leah agreed, but I was struck at how she was able to see the humanity in these two people. In my grief and anger over the senseless loss, I was not. I hear about these cases where the families of murder victims are able to forgive the people who committed such heinous crimes against their loved ones and I’m in awe about how such a thing is possible. How many of my beliefs go out the window as soon as I have an emotional connection to the victims? Is there a bloodthirsty vigilante living underneath my liberal exterior?

Not surprisingly, the troops involved in the 1914 Christmas Truce got into serious trouble when word got out and they were all transferred to different (and even more dangerous) parts of the front. Most did not survive the war but in 2004, 108-year-old Alfred Anderson told a British newspaper about the brief moment of peace amid the bloodshed. Anderson was 18 at the time and his unit was one of the first involved in trench warfare. He heard the words drifting across the frozen battlefield: “Stille Nacht, Hellige Nacht, Alles Schlaft, Einsam Wacht.” The lyrics were unfamiliar but the tune of “Silent Night” was unmistakable. After the last note a lone German infantryman appeared holding a small tree. “Merry Christmas! We not shoot, you not shoot!”

“All I'd heard for two months in the trenches was the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight, machinegun fire, and distant German voices,” said Anderson, who died in November 2005. “But there was a dead silence that morning, right across the land as far as you could see. We shouted ‘Merry Christmas’ even though nobody felt merry. The silence ended early in the afternoon and the killing started again. It was a short peace in a terrible war.” Anticipating the 90th anniversary of that day, Anderson said that he would think about Christmas 1914 as he did every year. “And I'll think about all my friends who never made it home. But it's too sad to think too much about it. Far too sad,” he said, his head bowed and his eyes filled with tears.

Abolish the FCC

What is this country turning into, a Margaret Atwood novel? I was disgusted the other day when I read about the latest machinations of the holier-than-thou FCC. This government agency, funded by our tax dollars, proposed a $3.6 million fine against CBS for airing an episode of “Without a Trace” that dealt with the possible rape of a high school student. They also upheld the previous $550,000 fine against 20 network affiliates for Janet Jackson’s infamous “wardrobe malfunction” at the Super Bowl two years ago. Maybe my irritation was exacerbated by the fact that these rulings were issued on the very day that such a horrific tragedy occurred at my daughter’s school. When I read the articles about the Puritanical obsessions of the FCC, all I could think of is the countless hours of wasted time and the millions of tax dollars spent discussing these issues instead of looking at important topics that really affect our children. Does anyone on this planet believe that the two-second flash of Janet Jackson’s right boob caused any trauma among the youth of America? Are girls across the country now longing to expose themselves at high school football games?

We weren’t watching the Super Bowl at my house in 2004, but I would happily show Leah and every child I know the footage of Janet Jackson without fear of damaging their pre-pubescent psyches. I am far more critical of the song she was singing with Justin Timberlake at the halftime show than her wardrobe. As far as I’m concerned, they could have spliced in scenes from La Toya Jackson’s ill-fated Playboy video, what is so threatening about the flash of a woman’s breast? Isn’t the sight of brother Michael Jackson’s surgically altered face far more disturbing? Or, for that matter, the violence depicted in the actual football game that is so revered?

When all the hoopla started over Janet Jackson, I honestly thought it was a joke and I was sure it would die down in a few days. I never dreamed that the meaningless incident would herald the Dawn of a New Age that makes the accusers of Hester Prynne look like tree-hugging lefties. For all the hubbub it caused, it’s clear that Janet Jackson’s breast is a greater peril to our society than the war in Iraq or the threat of nuclear weapons. Maybe we should give the FCC honchos even more power so they can brand a scarlet letter just above Jackson’s nipple or even force her to undergo a radical mastectomy so that our children are spared any further torment.

Have you ever listened to the smarmy Bush appointees on the FCC? The crackdown on alleged indecency begun by former chairman Michael Powell and now continuing under the leadership of his successor Kevin Martin reminds me of the terrifying government on display in the film “V for Vendetta” which I saw this weekend. Excellent, provocative film which made me think of many of the other witch hunts in our country’s past. Doesn’t it usually turn out that the people who are most rabidly attacking so-called decency standards are the ones who are struggling internally with their own guilt and shame issues? You only have to look at the 50-year-reign of J. Edgar Hoover who used his power at the FBI to ruin lives and discriminate against people he accused of being “perverts” while he himself was by many accounts a deeply closeted gay man.

About the Janet Jackson incident, FCC Chairman Martin stated last week that “we appropriately reject the argument that CBS continues to make that this material is not indecent. That argument runs counter to commission precedent and common sense.” Whose common sense? Following the rulings, Jonathan Rintels, Executive Director of the Center for Creative Voices in Media, said that “today’s FCC indecency decisions put creative, challenging, controversial, non-homogenized broadcast television programming at risk. These decisions illustrate the significant problems with the Commission’s enforcement of its indecency rules. They are vague, arbitrary, insufficiently attuned to the context and quality of the program, and bear no relation to ‘contemporary community standards,’ as the Commission’s own rules require.”

Certain language on some daytime talk shows was fined but the same language used on Oprah Winfrey’s show was deemed acceptable. (Mustn’t upset Oprah, the Commissioners seemed to be saying.) The word “bullshit” got a station in St. Louis a fine for airing the film “The Search for D.B. Cooper” even though the film has been shown several times in the past. The Spanish-language NBC-Telemundo network was fined $32,500 for airing a movie called “Con el Corazon en la Mano” in 2004 even though viewers were warned about the film’s content through a written advisory and a TV-MA rating and the scene in question was pivotal to the movie's plot. What led to the fine? ONE complaint from a shocked viewer. In response to objections, the FCC stated that the two characters in the scene “quite clearly appear to be having sexual intercourse, with his groin thrusting into hers as she moans, until he finally stops and rolls off of her.” Such descriptions make me think that these nuts are sitting in darkened rooms getting off on these films and TV shows that they have decided must be censored.

All of the fines are absurd but one of them was so appalling and potentially damaging I still can’t believe it.

PBS was fined $15,000 for airing acclaimed director Martin Scorsese’s documentary “The Blues.” Scorsese showed some documentary footage that included famous blues musicians talking about their music. I’d be so thrilled if my 11-year-old daughter or any child her age WANTED to watch this documentary and learn about this important part of American history that I’d let her make posters for her bedroom using the salty language uttered by the talented musicians. Why the hell was the use of “shit” fined in Scorsese’s documentary on PBS while the same language uttered by fictional soldiers in Steven Spielberg’s “Saving Private Ryan” was NOT considered indecent when it aired on network television?

I can only imagine the number of documentaries and other interesting programming that is currently being pulled out of production by terrified and spineless network executives. Not that I’m a Howard Stern-loving no-holds-barred advocate of sex and profanity on the airwaves. I am all for parents having a major role in deciding what is okay for their young children to watch. But I am not comforted by the existence of groups such as the Parents Television Council which organizes FCC letter-writing campaigns for shows they find remotely objectionable. Looking at their list of the Best and Worst TV Shows in 2006, I see shows like “American Idol” and “Dancing with the Stars” on the Best list (gag me) and “Will and Grace” and “Arrested Development” consistently on the Worst list. I’m not surprised that “Arrested Development,” one of the most creative, funny sitcoms to appear on television since Norman Lear’s 1970s heyday, has already been cancelled. But what on earth about “Will and Grace” has made it so consistently a target of the PTC’s letter-writing campaigns? The simple fact that it includes openly gay characters who are not ashamed of their sexuality? Compared to the provocative content of “All in the Family,” “Will and Grace” seems more like a hard-hitting episode of “Leave it to Beaver” than anything we need to protect our children from.

Again, please don’t get me wrong. If anything I’m something of a prude when it comes to what I want my daughter exposed to. I can’t stand the slutty dress and persona of singers such as Christina Aguilera and I am against anything that depicts children in a sexual light. But I sure as hell don’t want these Bush-appointed FCC idiots, who probably want to bring back Lucy and Ricky’s separate twin beds, deciding what should be on the air.

Why can’t these government agencies stop policing our lives and let parents assume the responsibility for instilling values in their children? Hey, wait a minute—isn’t that what the Republican Party has supposedly been pushing for all along?

Little Shop of Horrors

My daughter left school about twenty minutes early yesterday with two of her classmates. The three girls are members of a children’s theatre company in Los Angeles and they left to prepare for their final performance of the musical “Little Shop of Horrors.” Five minutes after Leah and her friends drove away, a car barreled down the street at about 60 mph,  jumped the curb, and plowed into a group of students and teachers who were returning to the school at the end of the day from their P.E. class at a nearby park. One teacher, a 24-year-old woman who was beloved by all the students, was killed instantly. Eight students were hit by the car and went sailing through the air as their classmates watched helplessly.

Miraculously, none of the students were killed. Five remain hospitalized with serious injuries and broken bones. Witnesses described a scene of utter horror. Apparently the 20-year-old woman driving the car was arguing with her boyfriend and she claims he yanked the steering wheel which caused the car to smash into the group. Once the car stopped, the couple climbed out of the driver’s side window, stepped over the body of the dead teacher, and fled the scene, even while bleeding children lay screaming in the street. One of the adults who saw the tragedy chased the woman down and dragged her back to the scene. Her boyfriend got away but the police knew his identity and he turned himself in last night. The man and woman are being charged with vehicular manslaughter, gross negligence, and felony hit-and-run driving.

When we arrived at the theatre, word was just beginning to spread about the horrible accident. The older brother of one of the girls in the play was right behind the group when they were struck and saw the whole thing. Leah and her friends were backstage getting into their costumes and we decided to wait until after the show to tell them the news. It was agony seeing them so happy and carefree as they performed their parts, knowing what we were about to tell them. The gruesome storyline of “Little Shop of Horrors” was particularly chilling given the circumstances. At the very beginning of the musical, Leah stepped out onto the stage alone in a trench coat and sunglasses and said these words very seriously:

In an early year of a decade not too long before our own,
The human race suddenly encountered
A deadly threat to its very existence.
And this terrifying enemy surfaced,
As such enemies often do,
In the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places.

The whole cast then appeared on the stage to sing the title song:

Little shop, little shop of horrors
Little shop, little shop of terror.
Call a cop! Little shop of horrors.
No, oh, oh, no-oh!

Little shop, little shop of horrors.
Bop sh'bop, little shop of terror.
Watch 'em drop! Little shop of horrors.
No, oh, oh, no-oh!

Shing-a-ling, what a creepy thing to be happening!
Shang-a-lang, feel the sturm and drang in the air.

Little shop, little shop of horrors.
Bop sh-bop, you'll never stop the terror.
Little shop, little shop of horrors.
No, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, no!

I definitely felt the sturm and drang in the air as we gathered the 11-year-old girls after the show, still in their stage makeup, and watched their childhood innocence and sense of security take a major hit.

This morning, once we got past the phalanx of TV crews looking for sound bites from the shellshocked parents and students, we talked to grief counselors at the school and then left our children to work at processing this nightmare with their teachers. I have nothing but admiration for the way the school is handling the situation. Classes have been cancelled for tomorrow so that the faculty can have some time to grieve the senseless loss of their dear colleague.

My heart goes out to the parents of this lovely woman, the parents of the injured students, the children who were hurt, and those who witnessed the carnage. I’m not sure how they’re ever going to get over that. I am so grateful that Leah was on her way to the theatre when this happened. I don’t think there’s anything more terrifying than hearing the name of your child’s elementary school on the national news, especially if you are not yet sure that your child is okay.

Many of the students today, including my daughter, were particularly concerned that we drive very safely and carefully. The grief counselors told us to not use any euphemisms in talking about their coach’s death, and to let the children express their grief in their own ways. We shouldn’t promise them that something like this won’t happen again because there’s no way we can know that. The best we can do is to tell them that even though this situation has hit them very closely, it is still quite rare, and that most people do live for a very long time.

I couldn’t help but think of the few times I’ve driven in a very agitated state and I made a solemn vow that if I ever again find myself that upset behind the wheel, I will immediately pull over and wait until I cool off. I urge you to make the same promise to yourself. And to go hug your kid.

That Broad Could Act!

Maureen Stapleton, who died this week at the age of 80, was friends with Marilyn Monroe when they both studied at the Actors’ Studio. Stapleton thought that Monroe had a lot of talent but that her looks prevented her from getting the parts she deserved. “I never had that problem,” Stapleton said later. “People looked at me on stage and said, ‘Jesus, that broad better be able to act.’”

The first time I saw Maureen Stapleton was in the film version of “Bye Bye Birdie.” She played Dick Van Dyke’s mother Mae Peterson, even though, at 38, she was only six months older than Van Dyke. This was one of the biggest advantages of not being a classic Hollywood beauty in those days. Stapleton rose to prominence playing characters much older than herself, starting with her Tony Award-winning performance at the age of 26 as earthy Serafina Delle Rose in Tennessee Williams’ “The Rose Tattoo.” Williams had written the part for the much older Anna Magnani but Magnani’s English language skills were not up to snuff for the theatre (she did play the part in the 1955 film version) so Stapleton, a nice Irish girl from Troy, New York, played the middle-aged Italian woman to great acclaim.

“Bye Bye Birdie” was hardly the high point of Stapleton’s amazing work as an actress but it did prove that she had the chops for musical comedy as well as drama. Her Mama Peterson was the most Jewish character in that film (even though she wasn’t supposed to be) with her constant hocking of her son and her total dismissal of his Hispanic girlfriend Rose (played, oddly, by Janet Leigh—was it still considered too shocking in 1963 to have Dick Van Dyke kiss the woman who created the part on Broadway, Puerto Rican Chita Rivera?). I recognized many of my relatives in Mae Peterson and her squeaky-shoes performance was one of my favorites in the film. This exchange typifies the mind-controlling, guilt-producing dysfunction I knew so well:

Mae Peterson: Now, don't try to pay me back, son. I forgive you. So what if you're an ingrate? So long as you're happy.
Albert Peterson: (wracked with guilt) I don't wanna be happy!

I loved “Bye, Bye Birdie” as a kid, and I still do, but several of the cast members, including Dick Van Dyke and especially Janet Leigh, resented how the film was turned into a star vehicle for newcomer Ann-Margret. The opening and closing credits were added later to showcase the vivacious Ann-Margret. Bursting out of her tight dress, she sang the title song in a provocative, sexy manner that had little to do with her character of Kim MacAfee. Leigh complained bitterly about it, especially since she was originally seen as the main star of the film, but Stapleton took it in stride. Her opinion on acting was “I do a job, I get paid, I go home.” However, at the wrap party for the film, the always irreverent Stapleton announced, “I guess I’m the only person in the room who doesn’t want to fuck Ann-Margret.”

Maureen Stapleton had many great successes on Broadway, from Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie” and “Orpheus Descending” to Neil Simon’s “Plaza Suite.” In 1970 she starred with Lou Jacobi in my father’s best friend Sam Bobrick’s new play “Norman, Is That You?” Alas, it only lasted 12 performances (although it became a big hit outside of New York) but it was lucky for Stapleton that the snobby New York critics shut the play down—her next play was Neil Simon’s “The Gingerbread Lady” which won her another Tony Award. Simon reportedly used parts of Maureen Stapleton’s own life in his play about an alcoholic actor in recovery.

I only saw Stapleton once on the Broadway stage, as Birdie Hubbard in the 1981 revival of Lillian Hellman’s “The Little Foxes” which starred Elizabeth Taylor as Regina Giddens. Propped up by Maureen Stapleton’s brilliant performance, it was surely Taylor’s best work on the stage. I’ve never forgotten what has to be the best Act 1 closing line in the history of theatre. Just as the curtain is coming down, Elizabeth Taylor stands center stage and shouts to her gravely ill husband, “I HOPE YOU DIE!”

Besides her turn as Mae Peterson, my favorite Maureen Stapleton role on film is Pearl in Woody Allen’s “Interiors.” You remember Woody Allen’s 1978 attempt to break out of comedy films? And boy, did he ever succeed in this fascinating but excruciating study of a very dysfunctional goyishe family in New York led by the humorless E.G. Marshall and Geraldine Page, both wearing various shades of beige. In saunters Stapleton’s saucy Pearl in a bright red dress to steal patriarch E.G. Marshall away, much to the horror of daughters Diane Keaton, Kristin Griffith, and Mary Beth Hurt (“She’s a vulgarian!”).

When she won the Academy Award for her small but powerful role as Emma Goldman in Warren Beatty’s “Reds,” she gave what I consider the best acceptance speech ever. It wasn’t even that original or witty but her delivery was perfection:

“I want to thank…everybody I ever met in my entire life.”

Minutes after winning the Oscar, a reporter asked her how it felt to be recognized as one of the greatest actresses in the world. Stapleton replied, “Not nearly as exciting as it would be if I were acknowledged as one of the greatest lays in the world.” When they asked her if she had expected to win, she answered, “Yes, because I'm old and tired and I lost three times before.” How can you not love this woman?

What is it about some actors that make them so authentic, so achingly moving no matter what they’re in or what character they’re playing? I never saw a Maureen Stapleton performance that I didn’t think was extraordinary and honest to the bone, from her TV work in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” or “Queen of the Stardust Ballroom” to roles in so-so movies such as “Airport” and “Cocoon.”

Is one prerequisite for such outstanding ability a tortured life? Reading about Stapleton’s fear of traveling by plane, train, or elevator, I wondered how on earth she managed to get to any of her acting gigs. Her deep fear that she would be shot while performing on stage must have made her fellow actors nuts. To counter the phobia, Stapleton would constantly walk all over the stage during her performances. Her longtime affair with director George Abbott when she was in her 40s and he in his 80s ended when he left her for a younger woman.

I’m sad that another one of the true greats is gone. Rarely do we see that kind of talent in someone with such a down-to-earth personality, completely devoid of pretension. When asked what the key to good acting is, Maureen Stapleton replied, “As far as I’m concerned, the main thing is to keep the audience awake.”

Ritual Crime

My wife Kendall and I are trying to have a baby. No luck yet but we’ll see what happens. Do you think I’m getting a little long in the tooth to deal with an infant in the house? My ears are still ringing from the classmate of Leah’s who asked me recently if I was Leah’s grandpa. Oy. I’m only 46—hell, Tony Randall was 76 when his first child was born.

Kendall is revered among all of the young children we know. Her patience with and love for the very little ones is a rare thing and if we do have a child it will be one lucky kid to have such a mother. While Kendall and I may occasionally have different styles when it comes to parenting, we are very much on the same page in terms of the overall values we hope to instill in any child we may have. There’s only one area I can think of where we differ strongly. I’m usually a reasonable person, willing to listen to other points of view, but as Kendall knows, this is a topic about which I’m completely unwilling to compromise.

The issue is circumcision, the surgical removal of the skin that covers the tip of the penis. Kendall has a circle of organic, recycling, compost-turning friends who tend to decry the abomination inflicted on innocent Jewish babies the world over. The arguments that Kendall’s well-meaning cohorts make against circumcision are not without merit although some of their hysterical claims make my eyes roll: It is an unnecessary surgical procedure. It is a crude, outdated practice that dulls sensation and sexual pleasure. It is an unnatural ritual based on a false aesthetic. It causes undue pain and permanent psychological damage. [Yawn.] Of all the Jewish customs my young parents would later abandon, I'm grateful they followed their tribal instincts and exposed me to the savagery of the ritual knife. Unnecessary? Perhaps, but like many Jewish rituals, it seems to have been based on some level of sound hygiene. Tales of having to clean around the foreskin with a cotton swab and stories of increased urinary tract infections do not fill me with envy for my uncut brethren. Was I permanently traumatized by the event? Please. Compared to the dysfunctional excesses of Jewish family life, this little nip and a day or two of soreness was the least of my problems.

The anti-circumcision movement is growing by the minute. What offends me the most about the propaganda they circulate is the frequent comparison to what is often called female circumcision or female genital mutilation, a practice observed in many African countries in which part of a girl’s clitoris is cut with the specific aim of reducing sexual pleasure or completely eliminating the girls’ sexual desire. Needless to say, this objective has nothing to do with male circumcision. Au contraire. And to those in the movement who might want to convince me otherwise, save your breath. I’ve read the information put out by organizations with such names as NOHARMM (the National Organization to Halt the Abuse and Routine Mutilation of Males) and my son, if I have one, is still going under the knife. I’m not saying that such groups don’t make some good points but I wish they’d tone down the rhetoric that would have us believe that Jewish parents who have their sons circumcised should be hunted down by a UN human rights tribunal.

When I was born nearly all American boys were circumcised, regardless of their religious background. I admit that this practice was mostly unnecessary from a medical point of view, and I understand why many parents today are opting to leave their babies’ foreskins alone. But the reality is that Jewish people have been performing circumcisions on their male offspring in an unbroken chain for more than 4,000 years. It is the oldest continual Jewish rite, an important event that leaves a permanent sign of the bond between the new male child and God. Above is my own certificate of circumcision, a document I had to come up when I married my first wife Sophie in an orthodox ceremony in Paris (officiated by the Chief Rabbi of France). I’m grateful I was able to produce this document since it was either that or dropping trou in front of a bunch of French rabbis. The certificate is dated September 11, 1959, and lists my grandfather as the sandek, the person who holds the child during the circumcision. According to Jewish mysticism, the child takes on the good character traits of the sandek and shares a lifelong spiritual connection with him.

Of course, I remember nothing of my own bris, or brit milah, the ritual ceremony at which Jewish boys are circumcised and given their names. Fortunately, a grainy 8mm film of the event survives. In the faded blues and greens of '50s Eastmancolor, I see my innocent, eight-day-old self carried into a room on a scarlet pillow by my grandfather, like some kind of sacrificial offering to the Temple of Jerusalem. My parents are standing nearby, looking a bit pale and nervous, as if they aren't quite sure what they're supposed to do. There’s my red-haired grandmother, working the room like a Catskills comic, smiling with relief at the tradition being carried out by her non-religious daughter. Around the periphery of the room are clusters of ancient relatives, looking as if they just walked out of the Special Collections Room at the Smithsonian. They are decidedly non-American; their unusual clothes and somber looks are in marked contrast to the Pepsodent gleam and fresh-scrubbed look of my parents and the other American-born family members. I see a pair of wrinkled, dowager aunts from the old country, in unflattering wigs and long black skirts, glaring disapprovingly at my mother, who is laughing and taking long drags from her Kent cigarette. There must have been little prenatal awareness in 1959; between my mother’s three packs a day, frequent martinis, and heavy use of medications, it’s a wonder I wasn’t born with three eyes and a tail.

But I don’t see any signs of imperfection in me or my mother in the scratchy images. My mother’s waist is so tiny I wonder how she could have delivered a baby a week earlier. Her auburn hair is cropped short and her skin looks like it's been blanched of all pigment, especially in contrast to her blood-red lips and fire engine nails. She is wearing a lemon yellow dress made of some 1950s textured material that belongs more on furniture than on women (indeed, my Aunt Florence and Aunt Rose look like walking, upholstered ottomans bursting forth from their blue and green-fringed gowns) but my mother looks stunning in the skin-tight bodice, oversized buttons, and loose, pleated skirt. My father walks over and hands my mother a scotch. He is quite tanned and looks like Ricky Ricardo to my mother's red-haired Lucy. My father is wearing a shiny blue suit with a pattern of light red squares, a crisp white shirt, and a red- and blue-striped tie. My parents look young and innocent, the perfect models of Eisenhower America. They are standing just a few feet from the elderly contingent, but it’s as if two strips of film have been double-exposed; one in a dull, sepia-toned black and white, the other in blazing, saturated color.

I ponder the timeworn faces of the older generation. Most of these relatives were born in Staszow, Poland, a town that no longer contains any trace of its once-flourishing Jewish community. My family arrived in the New World during one of the largest waves of immigration from eastern Europe in the early 1900s. All of the family members who remained in Poland perished during the Holocaust, and this older generation seems to carry the memory of the dead with a heaviness that is absent among the American-born group. My great-grandparents, Itsheh Meyer and Alta Toba, are sitting at a table holding court as their children and grandchildren flutter about catering to their whims.

The person who actually performs the circumcision at a bris is called a mohel (pronounced “moil”). An interesting choice of professions. I wonder if other religions offer career options with such a heavy focus on male genitalia. I’ve come to think that Jews, as a people, pay a disproportionate amount of attention to the penis—there are many Yiddish terms for the male organ: putz, shlong, shvons, shmuck, the list goes on. I remember seeing advertisements for mohels in my grandfather’s Jewish newspapers, including ones who were available 24 hours a day. When is the last time anyone you know had the need for a 3 a.m. circumcision?

Images of aging, senile mohels play a key role in the nightmares of Jewish boys: doddering, black-robed men with long, gray beards ambling towards your privates with a dull, bloodstained blade in their palseyed hand. There is something other-wordly about a mohel—something secret, bordering on the Satanic. None of this angst describes the man I see on film discussing a few last details with my proud grandfather. My ritual slicer is a young professional, quite fashionable in his gray wool suit and wine-colored tie. This career man is not at all other-wordly—he looks like he might have his own used car dealership to subsidize his penis-lobbing interests. Thirty years later, I will run into the still-practicing mohel in an apartment hallway following my grandmother's funeral. I'm not sure how it comes up, but within minutes it is clear that this man, Noah Wolff, has not only circumsized me, but also every other male who happens to be standing in the small foyer—my sister's boyfriend, two cousins, and a friend from high school. It is a most unusual form of male bonding.

The dirty deed itself is not filmed in close-up, thank God. I don’t know if this is due to the social protocols of the day or if the filmmaker is simply unable to break through the circle of men now gathered around my unsuspecting self. The men, young and old, sway in rhythmic unison, singing prayers that have united Jews across the centuries. The women are mulling about the outer circle. They do not appear to be full participants in the day’s main event. Everyone is standing now, even the oldest of the Polish Jews. The circumciser looks me over, ritual tools in hand. He seems the picture of confidence as he prepares to initiate me into the covenant of Abraham and Isaac. My grandfather, who is holding me, seems overcome with happiness. My father shifts from one foot to the other, beads of sweat forming on his brow. The scene reminds me of something out of the film Rosemary’s Baby, as the chanting cabal of men slowly moves closer and closer around my as-yet undefiled form. Suddenly my mother, in the foreground, jerks her head away. She appears to be ill, and I see tears welling up in her eyes. At once I am lifted from the center of the circle and held up in triumph. The deed is done. I have followed God’s commandment and taken my place among my fathers and forefathers and their ancestors before them. I am a Jew.

Arms reach in and pull me out of the frame. An air of festivity breaks out as the crowd makes a mob-like run for the long buffet tables, set up in the adjacent dining room. As in all Jewish rituals, food plays a primary role at the bris. A series of quick pans reveals pudgy, bejewelled hands reaching for plates of corned beef and tongue, chunky chopped liver and onions, runny tri-color cole slaw, and overstuffed kosher pastries. Everyone in the film seems to be gorging themselves as if they are half-starved refugees just off the boat. My cousin Rivka carries in a huge platter of smoked whitefish, chub, lox, and sable, with rings of crisp, raw onions scattered about. She passes my mother who is chain-smoking and talking to my Uncle Max. My mother looks bored, her face wears a plastered-on smile that reveals nicotine stains on her otherwise-perfect teeth. I wonder if Uncle Max is telling her the old story of the ear infection he had as a boy in Poland when his mother made him wear a wool sock filled with hot potatoes around his right ear. My Uncle Paul, 11 years old, darts by with several sweet rolls in his tightly-clenched hands. Streams of poppyseed and prune filling squish through his fingers as he holds on to the delicacies for dear life. My 21-year-old Aunt Bobby strolls through the frame carrying a plate of cucumber salad. She is stunning and aloof. Her red hair is cut very short, almost in a crew cut. Bobby looks modern and European—a cross between Jean Seberg and Joan of Arc.

The cinema vérité version of my Jewish beginnings comes to an abrupt end just before my father is about to make a speech to the crowd. I wish I knew what he said. I see myself, tightly swaddled, still writhing in unanesthetized pain in my grandfather’s arms. My mother glances guiltily in my direction. How did my parents feel now that this ancient tradition had been carried out on their own newborn babe? What did the older generation think, witnessing my emergence into a world that was light years away from the one they knew so well?

Kendall converted to Judaism two years ago, and like most converts, is very respectful of our ancient rituals. Every time she suggests that our future child not be circumcised I threaten to call our rabbi and have her conversion papers revoked. The more she expresses her doubts about the practice, the more obnoxious I get, surprising even myself with my strong feelings on the subject. What is with me? Maybe I’m afraid that if I stop and listen to her concerns I’ll start thinking twice about it myself. In a way it’s a relief to be so unwilling to budge about an issue, especially since so many other aspects of having a child seem part of a vast and terrifying unknown.

I’m sorry, Kendall. Forgive me for being so pig-headed. Now hand over that kid, grab some lox and bagels, and brace yourself for the knife.

The Oscars Are Killing Me

Just before the Oscars started last night my back went out. Doped up on Advil, I felt a pain in my neck an hour into the show that was so bad I couldn’t turn my head to the left. Towards the end of the telecast, my daughter developed a high fever, crushing headache,  and the shakes. What gives? Some psychosomatic bodily reaction to our mixed feelings about the awards? Is Leah so empathic that her body broke down in deference to the surprise best picture winners whose speech was cut off abruptly by the dreaded Academy orchestra? Can I just say again how utterly obnoxious this practice is of giving all the winners the bum's rush with loud music cues? People kept lauding conductor Bill Conti last night and while I know he’s done amazing work on many Academy Award-winning films, his antics during the acceptance speeches are nothing to be proud of. I know he’s “just following orders,” but if I were him I’d quit the gig before going along with that asinine plan designed to shave a few minutes off the broadcast. This year it was worse than ever—the music started playing the minute the winners began their speeches and it would gradually rise in volume as they got closer to their end time. I’m all for short and sweet Oscar speeches (nobody needs to thank their financial advisors), but I would gladly see the show extended for 10 more minutes if that would prevent the humiliating spectacle.

Despite the fact that I thought there were lots of nice moments in last night’s show, here, in a nutshell, is why I HATE awards shows. For months I’ve been rambling on and on about how much I loved Reese Witherspoon as June Carter Cash in “Walk the Line.” As recently as yesterday I was saying how much I hope she and/or Joaquin Phoenix win an Oscar for their exquisite performances in that film. Then, last night, in something of an upset, Reese Witherspoon pulls it off and wins the Academy Award for Best Actress. In a split second, all of my feelings change. I feel crushed for Felicity Huffman and start thinking that her role in “Transamerica” was really much more complex than Witherspoon’s and that Huffman deserved the award more. I start thinking that Reese is simply too young to fully appreciate what has happened and that she hasn’t yet paid her dues in the same way that Felicity has. And that it’s not fair because she’ll have so many chances in the future but we all know there aren’t a lot of great roles for women over 40 unless you’re Judi Dench or cast as a victim of horrific abuse.

Is this just my own sickness? Rather than focusing on the honored few, I spent the whole evening feeling bad for the “losers.” Remember when the presenters used to say “and the winner is…” before they’d read the name in the envelope? This was changed several years ago to “and the Oscar goes to…” in some bit of P.C. lunacy because it was felt that the people who didn’t win would be traumatized by the original phrase. They got it all wrong. The people whose names are in the envelopes really are the winners, there’s no way around that, but what they should change is the name of the categories. BEST Actress? BEST Actor? I don’t think so! No wonder I turned on poor Reese—it’s like when parents elevate one of their children to star status, instantly making all of the siblings despise the honored child. There really is something wrong with a society that constantly needs to bestow an artificial “Best of” on every aspect of its culture.

I know the window of opportunity for discussing the Oscar telecast slammed shut hours ago. Writing about it a full 24 hours later is like reviewing the Ford’s Theatre production of “Our American Cousin” the day after Lincoln’s funeral. So I’ll limit my comments to what I considered the highlights of the show.

Jonny, We Hardly Knew  Ye. Despite his mixed reviews,  I thought Jon Stewart acquitted himself quite admirably. The show had a decent pace and several of his jokes made me laugh out loud (including the one about Dick Cheney accidentally shooting Bjork). I thought the faux political ads he introduced for some of the nominees was hands-down the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on an Oscar telecast. But why do the hosts always disappear about two-thirds into the show just when we need them the most? Oh well, at least the blatant sexism that permeated last year’s show was gone, as were any misplaced references to our troops  in Iraq. I’ve given up hoping for a host that has everything it takes AND a movie career. Apart from Billy Crystal, I think Jon Stewart was the best of the recent bunch. If I were the producer I’d bring him back for another go—unless Bob Hope can be exhumed.

Andy Hardy Scores Again! After watching some  Oscar telecasts, you might think that movies were a brand new  invention with no history to draw from. I’m always grateful for montages of great film clips that remind us why we’re watching the stupid awards show in the first place. Such montages were in great abundance last night, from the very funny look at “gay cowboys” in movie history to the salute to film noir and the delicious taste of Robert Altman’s body of work. Any dip into the Academy’s vaults is okay by me, I wouldn’t care if it was an homage to Hollywood’s greatest anti-Semites. The way they incorporated the old clips into the opening of the show was nothing short of miraculous—that technology is getting so advanced that maybe next year Bob Hope can host the Oscars again! The only actual old-timers I saw in attendance were Mr. Andy Hardy himself, Mickey Rooney, looking a little bit like Darth Vader after Luke Skywalker removed his protective mask at the end of the first trilogy, and lovely Lauren Bacall, who despite a cringeworthy struggle with the TelePrompter, still exuded more class and old-time glamour than any of the taut twentysomethings in that theatre. I heard some people today speculating that Lauren must have been drunk. Come on—the woman is 81 years old, for God’s sake. My money is on an overzealous TelePrompter operator (Bacall wasn’t the only one to have trouble reading the lines) and possibly a worsening case of macular degeneration. Following the clips, Bacall was nowhere to be found and no mention was made of her again, as if she had been disappeared by the ghost of Mayo Methot, Bogie’s ex-wife.

Batman Loves Mammy. I loved George Clooney’s acceptance speech, especially his mention of Hattie McDaniel’s ground-breaking win in 1939, at a time when black people still had to sit in the back of theatres. My other favorite speech was the one given by South African director Gavin Hood, whose “Tsotsi” won as Best Foreign Film. The minute he shouted “God Bless Africa!” I burst into tears, especially when they showed the South African contingent that had accompanied him (sitting—gulp!—in the back of the theatre). Then when he spoke in some African language I cried even more. For some reason, whenever a winner speaks in their native tongue (or in sign language as was the case with Louise Fletcher and Marlee Matlin) I find it terribly moving. During Ang Lee’s lackluster speech (who made him repeat that “I wish I could quit you” line?), I only perked up when he launched into Chinese at the end. For all my moaning about the significance of the Oscars, I realize that the attention they bring to certain films really "works"—now I can't wait to go see "Syriana" and "Tsotsi."

Meryl Streep Is God. I was so happy to see Robert Altman get a much-deserved lifetime achievement award. His film “Nashville” is my all-time favorite and it was a thrill to see “Nashville” star Lily Tomlin up there presenting the award. I’m used to seeing Tomlin’s unique brand of Altmanesque delivery and offbeat humor, but who knew that Meryl Streep (star of Altman’s upcoming “Prairie Home Companion”) could match Tomlin note-for-note? The two of them perfectly simulated the overlapping dialogue and nonlinear craziness of a classic Robert Altman film. Streep never once glanced at the TelePrompter, she had her part down cold. Honestly, is there anything that woman can’t do? I don’t think so. As far as I’m concerned, you could cast Meryl Streep as the lead in “The Hattie McDaniel Story” and she’d be entirely believable.

At Least They Tried. In my desperate longing for more humor in the deadly show, I have to hand it to Ben Stiller for his goofy green-screen special effects bit (maybe it went on too long but he’s sure got guts!) and to Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell for appearing in front of a billion people wearing crazy makeup and false eyelashes (I bet that was the kind of thing both of them did in high school). And kudos to Jennifer Garner for recovering from her near disastrous fall on her way to the podium and having the wherewithal to retort, “I do all my own stunts.”

There weren’t nearly as many moments of horror as in years past. As usual, the production numbers for the Best Song nominees provided the evening’s most  ghastly moments. First, Dolly Parton provided endless fodder for every living room in America and beyond. Did she have some ribs removed to get that waist? What’s going on with those legs? How many surgeries has she had on her face? Did Michael Jackson’s doctor do her nose? I love Dolly, and still think she’s a great singer and songwriter, but I wish she hadn’t turned herself into a blow-up doll. Still, unlike many plastic people in this town, Dolly readily admits to every visit under the knife and, God love her, she likes the results. But when they showed the brief clip from “Nine to Five” it was even more poignant to see how “natural” and pretty she looked back then. 

Um…was it absolutely necessary to torch an actual car on the stage of the Kodak Theatre while Kathleen Bird York sang that song from "Crash," complete with zombies moving in slow motion around the burning vehicle in what seemed like an homage to Debbie Allen’s dance numbers of yore? Ditto the Oscar-winning song from "Hustle & Flow" that glorified a soap opera vision of pimps and hos. Let’s just compare the beginning of the 2006 Oscar winner for Best Song:

You know it's hard out here for a pimp (you ain't knowin)
When he tryin to get this money for the rent (you ain't knowin)
For the Cadillacs and gas money spent (you ain't knowin)
Because a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin)
Will have a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin).

It's fucked up where I live, but that's just how it is
It might be new to you, but it's been like this for years
It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch
I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp
But I'm prayin and I'm hopin to God I don't slip, yeah.

with the beginning of the song that won the award in 1936:

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you,
And the way you look tonight.

Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.

Which song would you rather have playing at your wedding?

I spent most of my rant about last year’s Oscar telecast bemoaning Chris Rock’s offensive comments about the physical attributes of co-presenters Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz. I hated to see these talented women reduced to such stereotypes. Should I admit, then, that when Salma Hayek walked out on stage to present an award last night, my eyes practically bugged out of my head like one of those wolves in an old Tex Avery cartoon? Now that is old-school glamour. Salma could hold her own with the likes of Ava Gardner and Rita Hayworth any day of the week. But even more embarrassing was what happened a few minutes later. During a muted L’Oreal commercial, I piped up, “Oh, there she is again! God, she’s beautiful!” Oops. It wasn’t Salma Hayek, it was…Penelope Cruz. In any event, I’m looking forward to Hayek’s three movies coming out this year and Cruz’s four (including “Bandidas” starring both of them). Let’s start an Oscar buzz. After all, the only Latina to ever win an acting award was Rita Moreno and that was 45 years ago.

I thought this year’s set was hideous in a Beverly Center multiplex kind of way. And I was ridiculously off with my Oscar predictions, getting only one of the acting awards right and both of the writing awards. But enough—the Oscars are history, it’s time to start the campaigns for the 2007 Academy Awards. So far, the best actors I’ve seen are the dogs in “Eight Below.”

Saint Oscar

I braved the street closures and security juggernaut of Hollywood Boulevard yesterday to take a look at how preparations for the Oscars were going. Hundreds of workers were laying red carpets, setting up lights, moving bushels of white roses, and carting around so many giant Oscar statues it was starting to look like the city that the Hebrew slaves built for the Pharaoh in “The Ten Commandments.”

Did you know that long before the Charlton Heston version, Cecil B. DeMille made an epic silent film of “The Ten Commandments” in 1923? He built one of the largest sets in film history and the fascinating part is that instead of striking the set when shooting was completed, he had it buried in the California desert. In his autobiography DeMille gives clues as to the whereabouts of this gigantic set and speculates about the confusion it might cause to archaeologists a thousand years in the future who might think that ancient Egyptian culture extended to the western coast of North America! Following these clues, archaeologists in the 90s used sonar waves to find the buried set including the dozens of gargantuan sphinxes. Last I heard they needed about a million dollars to excavate it in its entirety so apart from a few items most of it is still buried deep in the California dunes.

Those old film sets were on my mind yesterday because the Kodak Theatre, site of the Oscars, is at the Hollywood & Highland complex which incorporates the recreated set pieces from D. W. Griffith’s 1916 film “Intolerance,” at the time the most expensive set ever built. It used to stand just a few blocks away at Sunset and La Brea. This was Griffith’s first film after the controversial “Birth of a Nation” (which glorified the Ku Klux Klan) and, as if to make up for it, he focused the epic around four wildly different yet parallel stories about man’s inhumanity to man and what can result from bigotry and religious hatred. The imposing Hollywood & Highland set piece is from the Babylonian sequence in which peace-loving Prince Belshazzar must cope with the fall of Babylon into the hands of King Cyrus the Persian. Griffith used over 16,000 extras in the outdoor set which cost a full third of the film’s massive two million dollar budget. If you ever get a chance to see this rarely screened film, you should run to the theatre, preferably at the nearby American Cinematheque, once Grauman’s Egyptian, so that afterwards you can walk a block over and traipse through the Babylonian set yourself. I give the designers of Hollywood & Highland a lot of credit for building their otherwise humdrum shopping complex around this very appropriate design.

But even more striking than the ancient Babylonian archway was the scene I stumbled onto when I arrived in Hollywood, surely one of the most unusual sights I’ve ever seen. If I had been ten minutes earlier or later I would have missed the whole thing. There, walking in a solemn, single-file line, were 60 or so people, each carrying one of the Oscars that will be given out tonight. Wearing black gloves and clutching their Oscar like it was the Holy Grail, they marched the statues into the Kodak Theatre one by one in what looked like a religious event, every bit as laden with meaning as any scene in Griffith’s “Intolerance” or DeMille’s “Ten Commandments.” I guess the Oscar is our modern-day Golden Calf—God knows we are only too quick to worship at its altar. Where is our Moses to lead us out of the desert into the Promised Land? Jon Stewart? Why not, the Oscar telecast does sometimes feel as long as the exodus from Egypt!

Wish me luck, I’m going to attempt to breach the near-total Hollywood lockdown one more time to get to the Sunday Farmer’s Market to buy treats for our viewing tonight. I’m having some second thoughts about a few of my Oscar predictions although I still think it will be a big night for “Brokeback Mountain.” I really hope that “Walk the Line” wins either of the top acting honors and I realize I never commented on the writing awards. For Best Original Screenplay I predict that Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco will win for the superb “Crash” (I hope that film wins enough to warrant a new widespread release), and for Best Adapted Screenplay I predict Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana will take it home for “Brokeback Mountain” (but in fairness to the other writers, I will say that I still haven’t seen “The Constant Gardener” or “A History of Violence”). I thought McMurtry should have won 35 years ago for “The Last Picture Show.” Oh, and last night I saw the German Best Foreign Film nominee “Sophie Scholl: The Final Days” which deserves to win for the superb performance of Julia Jentsch as the young woman who was part of the German resistance group called “The White Rose” during World War II and was guillotined by the Nazis along with her brother Hans. I only wish the film had focused more broadly on the group and less on her last days in prison, but I do hope more people see this film. I’m sure there will be some fireworks on both sides if the Palestinian film “Paradise Now” takes home the prize.

Why don’t they just abolish the Best Original Song category at this point? The days of great movie songs are long over and now it’s so disgustingly obvious when filmmakers throw a new song in the closing credits that they’re just doing so to try to get an Oscar nomination. Still, it would be fun to see Dolly Parton win for her song “Travelin’ Thru” from “Transamerica” and I do look forward to watching the faces of the stodgier members of the Academy tonight as they’re listening to “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” from “Hustle & Flow.” Don’t adjust your sets—that sound you hear is Irving Berlin spinning in his grave.

Forgive Me, Scarlett Johansson

An article in today’s Los Angeles Times gives actress Scarlett Johansson’s take on the paparazzi:

“I get stalked by these people with giant cameras all the time when I’m doing my shopping or walking my dog,” she said. “I think it’s disgusting. Any picture you see of me in a magazine that is a candid is a complete and total invasion of my privacy.” Oy, thank God I resisted the temptation to take more pictures of her when she was in our house last month shooting “The Prestige.” And that the only photo I posted was of her back. I was standing right next to her in the catering tent while she was eating lunch and I had a brief moment where I considered snapping a photo with my cell phone. I’m grateful that human decency won out and I hereby put an end to my ten-minute career as a paparazzo.

Scarlett was in the news today in anticipation of designer Isaac Mizrahi’s stint as a red-carpet interviewer at the Oscars this Sunday. Apparently he caused quite a stir at the Golden Globes last month when he fondled Johansson’s breast. Mizrahi had asked the actress what she was wearing underneath her red dress. When she replied, “Not much,” Mizrahi cupped the star's breast in one hand and said, “It’s built in, I just wanna feel it. Oh, I just love that!” Yuck. Scarlett told the L.A. Times that she was more shocked than angry. “It was definitely in poor taste. I’d been prepping for two hours with hair and makeup and getting dressed. And the first interview I do, someone who I have never met before fondles me for his own satisfaction.” Mizrahi’s defenders point out that he is openly gay, as if that makes it okay. What’s next—Ellen DeGeneres interviewing George Clooney on the red carpet and grabbing his crotch? Am I becoming a prude? Losing my sense of humor? I just feel bad for these talented actresses who are constantly being defined by their physical attributes instead of their ability. And I’m still smarting from last year’s Oscars telecast in which Salma Hayek, Penelope Cruz, and Catherine Zeta-Jones were joked about in a way that only called attention to their racks.

Speaking of the Oscars, I remember being stunned when Oscar winner Adrien Brody bounded up to the stage to get his award and grabbed presenter Halle Berry into a deep, full-body kiss. She obviously made the right career choice to “go with it,” but wouldn’t she or Scarlett have been completely justified if they had slapped the living daylights out of their partners for their non-consensual moves? (They’ve been showing that Brody/Berry kiss a lot in the ads leading up to the Oscars and I will say that it was one hot smooch. At least professional actors can make such groping look more attractive.) Brody claimed he was just so excited he would have kissed anybody that way. Really? Even if Mel Gibson had been the presenter?

Scarlett turned beet red after Mizrahi’s ballsy move at the Golden Globes (this was after he asked Eva Longoria about her pubic hair and peered down Teri Hatcher’s dress). “Mostly, I was thinking, ‘Oh, my God. This is happening on live TV,”’ Johansson said, and she didn’t buy the designer’s explanation that he was trying to figure out how her dress was put together. “Like he doesn’t know how a dress works!”

I guess there’s no end to the indignities that actresses have to face, even in 2006. Just after the Golden Globes, Scarlett’s co-star from “Match Point,” Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, told a reporter that Johansson was very bashful during their sex scenes together. “I remember Scarlett telling me not to look at her tits,” Rhys-Meyers said. “But I did sneak a peek. I couldn’t help it, they were in my face.” And here I am repeating such eloquence. But as God as my witness, as of this moment, I declare a moratorium on any comments related to the body parts of talented actresses. (Oy, does that mean it’s okay to harass actresses if they’re not talented?)

For those who say that becoming an actor means giving up your right to privacy, Johansson begs to differ. She told the Times that she tries to maintain a low profile. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to do that? “I’m not out there to publicize my private life,” she said. “I try to avoid any situation where I might be harassed or followed.” True, Johansson appears nude on the cover of this month’s Vanity Fair by her own choice, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to grope her, does it? People who made reference to the Vanity Fair cover during the Mizrahi flap remind me of those lawyers who used to tell victims of sexual abuse that they “asked for it” by wearing suggestive clothing.

Scarlett Johansson isn’t attending the Oscars this year so there will be no repeat of her Mizrahi encounter. But she doesn't plan on avoiding him in the future. “I can take care of myself,” she said. “I’m from New York.”