Jew Eat Yet?

Two!

It’s almost impossible to believe that exactly two years have passed since that terrifying day when Charlie and his brother Oliver were born so unexpectedly at 9:46 and 9:48 am at just 24 weeks gestation. As we did last year, we’re returning to the NICU this morning to pay our respects and bring birthday cake to the amazing folks at Cedars-Sinai who saved our son’s life over and over again during those first five months.

Here is the first photo I ever took of Charlie. He was a few days old and barely over a pound. His eyes were still fused shut and he was getting all sorts of treatments to help his underdeveloped organs. His first of six surgeries would occur the following day. We had no idea what we were in for at that time but we knew it was going to be a long haul. Those days seem like ages ago but also like they happened this morning.

And here is Charlie five minutes ago, just waking up on his birthday morning and enjoying his morning bottle.

 

We love you so much, Charlie. More birthday pix later…

Charlton Heston Crashes Our Seder

Every year before and during our seder, I find myself thinking about the definitive movie version of the Passover story, the great Cecil B. De Mille epic, “The Ten Commandments.” De Mille’s masterpiece was a huge success when it premiered in 1956 and stood for many decades as one of highest grossing films of all time—second only to “Gone With the Wind.” I usually piece together my own Hagaddah for my seder and this year I decided to go right to the source. True, the non-Jewish and some say anti-Semitic De Mille took many liberties with the story of Moses leading the Jews out of Egyptian bondage, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a single Jew among the A-list stars of the film (except for Edward G. Robinson playing the evil, conniving Dathan who “spoiled” poor Hebrew slave girl Debra Paget) but I had a lot of fun using De Mille’s opus to tell the story.

Did you know that in the actual Hagaddah, Moses’s name is never mentioned? This is deliberate, to make sure the focal point of the story is God and not a heroic but mortal man. But in my Hagaddah, Chuck Heston receives the star billing he deserves. My commentary throughout the seder last night veered from a discussion of the Passover rituals to all sorts of tidbits about the making of the Technicolor extravaganza. De Mille’s first choice for Moses was actor William Boyd. When that fell through (Boyd worried that his success as Hopalong Cassidy would hurt the film), De Mille agreed on Heston only after someone pointed out the incredible resemblance between Charlton and Michelangelo’s famous sculpture of Moses.

The casting of the Hebrew slaves in “The Ten Commandments” was bizarre. I guess in 1956 all of the actual Jewish actors in Hollywood were too busy playing American Indians and Asians to appear in De Mille's film. Moses’s right-hand man Joshua was played by über-Goy John Derek who is best known for his series of successively younger wives (Ursula Andress, Linda Evans, and Bo Derek) who looked so much alike they could have passed for grandmother, mother, and daughter. Moses’ sister Miriam was played by shiksa Olive Deering, the first wife of Leo Penn (father of Sean). Moses’s mother Jochelbel was played by the very Gentile Martha Scott (the original Emily in “Our Town”) who played Heston’s Jewish mama in two films and  his wife in two stage plays. The great John Carradine played the role of Moses’ older brother, Aaron, and sultry Yvonne DeCarlo took on the role of Moses’ loyal wife Sephora. DeCarlo would play Mary Magdelene a few years later before hitting the big time as Lily Munster.

If the casting of the Jews in De Mille’s epic raised the hackles of the Anti-Defamation League, the actors playing the Egyptian characters in the film suffered no less of a genetic mismatch. Sir Cedric Hardwicke’s Sethi was clearly the whitest Pharaoh ever to grace the screen. With tall, blonde Nina Foch as Egyptian Princess Bithiah and Anne “Eve Harrington” Baxter as Queen Nefretiri, DeMille presented an Egyptian royal family that could have passed for the court of King Gustaf of Sweden. Where was Omar Sharif that year? At least Yul Brynner’s Rameses II had a more authentic look, despite the fact that Brynner was born in Vladivostok, Russia, quite a trek from the North African Kingdom of the Pharaohs. 

But who cares about authenticity when you’re watching one of the most gloriously absurd epics ever filmed? The hot-and-heavy scenes between Heston and Anne Baxter were as historically sound as some of Baxter’s ridiculous lines, my favorite being when Nefretiri slinks up to Heston and purrs, “Oh, Moses, you stubborn, splendid, adorable fool!”

A few more exquisite pearls from the film:

Nefretiri: You will be king of Egypt and I will be your footstool.
Moses: The man stupid enough to use you as a footstool isn't wise enough to rule Egypt.

Rameses (to Nefretiri): You will be mine, like my dog, or my horse, or my falcon, except that I shall love you more—and trust you less.

Nefretiri: Oh, Moses, Moses! Why of all men did I fall in love with the Prince of Fools? Why must you deny me and yourself? 
Moses: Because I am bound to a God, and to a people, and to a shepherd girl. 

Nefretiri: A shepherd girl? What can she be to you unless the desert sun has dulled your senses? Does she grate garlic on her skin or is it soft as mine? Are her lips chafed and dry as the desert sand or are they moist and red like a pomegranate? Is it the fragrance of myrrh that scents her hair or is it the odor of sheep?
Moses: There is a beauty beyond the senses, Nefretiri.

Baka: Will you lose a throne because Moses builds a city? 

Rameses: The city that he builds shall bear my name, the woman that he loves shall bear my child. So let it be written, so let it be done.

That last line rivals Brynner’s own “et cetera, et cetera, et cetera” that he made famous four months earlier when the movie version of “The King and I” opened. I wouldn’t be surprised if many people confused Brynner’s two most famous roles and believed that 19th century King Mongkut of Siam was wandering around Ancient Egypt 3000 years in the past. Though both rulers were despotic egomaniacs I felt sorry for them by the end of the films. Charlton Heston and Deborah Kerr both succeeded in emasculating poor Yul. I’m no scholar of Ancient Egypt but I strongly doubt that any Pharaoh ever stated, as Brynner’s Rameses did in utter defeat, “His God…IS…God!” Oy.

When he filmed “The Ten Commandments,” Charlton Heston was a liberal Democrat and was even considering a Democratic run for the Senate. Like his Democrat pal Ronald Reagan, Heston would make a whiplash-inducing turn to the right, eventually becoming the President of the National Rifle Association and working for pro-life groups. These later leanings of Heston’s were probably more in line with Moses’ political affiliations. Though socially liberal (Moses’ fight against slavery mirrored Heston’s support for civil rights), both had a religious zeal that could rival any fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist preacher.

The irony of organizing my Passover Hagaddah around the work of an anti-Semitic film director was not lost on me. But what about that slanderous charge? Is it fair? De Mille was unable to shake it following the release of his controversial 1927 film “King of Kings.” That silent blockbuster was the first film to leave viewers with the impression that the Jews, not the Romans, were responsible for the crucifixion of Jesus and it was thought to have ignited a new spate of pre-war anti-Semitism in this country. Under pressure from Jewish groups, De Mille added a title card that exonerated the biblical Jews but the prickly director didn’t help his case when he angrily responded to charges by Jewish critics by stating, “If Jesus were alive today, these Jews might crucify him again!” Oy, Cecil. A recent biography of the director makes the claim that De Mille’s mother was Jewish but that he kept that fact a secret throughout his life.

My only departure from my “Ten Commandments” reverie during the seder was a brief nod to the Harry Potter gang (in honor of my Potter-obsessed daughter) who stood in for the Four Sons we read about: the wise son (Harry Potter), the wicked (Draco Malfoy), the simple (Ron Weasley), and the one who is too young to ask (our own Charlie!).

Okay, so it wasn’t my great-grandfather’s seder, but we all had a wonderful time and enjoyed a yummy repast including homemade chopped liver, gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup (with tri-colored matzoh balls), brisket, mashed potatoes, and so on. It’s a good thing the Hebrew slaves didn’t eat a traditional seder before they hightailed it out of Egypt or they would have been too bloated to make it across the Red Sea.

Happy Passover, everyone! Next Year in Jerusalem (by way, of course, of MGM’s “Ben-Hur!”). 

My Two Favorite Sydney Lumet Films

We lost another great filmmaker this weekend. Sydney Lumet was 86 years old and had been making movies for almost 60 years. His last big release was in 2007, the excellent and disturbing “Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead” starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke.

Before he became a film director, Lumet was a child actor. He starred in the original Broadway production of “Dead End” and at the age of 14, and appeared in a fantastic film I wrote about a few years ago called “One Third of a Nation,” a gritty look at tenement life in New York starring the amazing Sylvia Sidney.

When talking about Lumet’s best films, I know it would be more fashionable to mention his superb, critically acclaimed productions such as “Twelve Angry Men,” his first film project, “Long Day’s Journey into Night” starring Katharine Hepburn, Rod Steiger’s tour-de-force in “The Pawnbroker,” or Al Pacino’s amazing performances in “Serpico” and “Dog Day Afternoon.” I could watch each one of those right now and there are so many more. Who could forget the brilliant “Network” which seemed so outlandish in 1976 but which has all but come true in 2011, “Stage Struck” starring Henry Fonda and Susan Strasberg, the odd but yummy “The Group” based on the Mary McCarthy book, the film versions of the Broadway hits “Equus” and “Deathtrap,” “The Verdict” starring Paul Newman, “Daniel,” based on the E.L. Doctorow novel, and “The Morning After” which features one of Jane Fonda’s best performances.

Lumet also directed some stinkers. There was the bizarre and misguided film version of “The Wiz” starring Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, and Lumet’s mother-in-law at the time, the fabulous Lena Horne (whose solo is the only worthwhile sequence in the film).  To be honest, this film was so bad that I should probably take another look—its kitschy awfulness might make it fun to watch. And I bet the musical number filmed on the plaza of the World Trade Center is chilling to see today. There was also the disappointing “Garbo Talks” with Anne Bancroft and a slew of great actors in a plot that had my name on it. Oh, how I wanted to like this film—but I just couldn't. I remember they even tried to get the reclusive Garbo to appear as herself in the film. She rebuffed the offer, of course, and in the end was played by the legendary Betty Comden. Finally, I remember the painful “A Stranger Among Us,” another film that had my name on it (but really sucked) in which Melanie Griffith goes undercover as a Chasidic Jew (!) in order to solve a murder and ends up, of course, sleeping with a young hunky Chasid. Oy. Besides the outlandish script, I’m afraid that Ms. Griffith sank the film. I’d like to see it again with Kate Winslet in that role (or do I just want to fantastize about Winslet wearing a sheidel?).

But apart from these masterpieces and clinkers, the two Sydney Lumet films that made the biggest impression on me came out in 1974 and 1988.

Murder on the Orient Express. This high-pedigreed film version of Agatha Christie’s novel featured enough over-acting for a dozen movies and I loved every second of it. You couldn’t even gather a cast like this today: Albert Finney, Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, Ingrid Bergman, Michael York, Vanessa Redgrave, Jacqueline Bisset, Richard Widmark, John Gielgud, Anthony Perkins, Martin Balsam, Rachel Roberts, Wendy Hiller, Jean-Pierre Cassel—are you freaking kidding me? It was by far the best of the Agatha Christie films (and the only one that the still alive Christie approved of) and, as far as I’m concerned, a perfectly realized ensemble piece. Lumet had great fun with the actors and made every frame of this gorgeous film drip with class.

Do you know where you were on November 24, 1974? I do—I was at the opening day of this film at the now demolished Playboy Theatre on the corner of Dearborn and Division in Chicago. Funny how I can barely remember what I did this weekend but I remember every detail of that screening, from the big plush rocking seats (a real thrill in 1975) at the Playboy to the smell of the popcorn, to how transfixed I was by this movie. For some reason, stray lines from the film still find their way into my repertoire of non sequitirs. Just ask Kendall—I think it was only last week that I quoted lines from Lauren Bacall, Albert Finney, Vanessa Redgrave, and Ingrid Bergman.

The film, inspired by the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, includes a series of delicious (and implausible) twists that, of course, our intrepid detective Hercules Poirot (an unrecognizable Finney) figures out by the story's end. The cast is so good I could go on at length about each one of them. Instead, I’ll just focus on Lauren Bacall who I thought was especially brilliant as the brash American housewife (or was she?) Harriett Hubbard. I would go so far as to say this is my favorite Bacall performance and as much as I worship Ingrid Bergman, I think it is Bacall who should’ve won the Supporting Actress Oscar that year. But she wasn’t even nominated and Bergman seemed so embarrassed by her win (she played a timid missionary who helped the “little brown babies” in Africa) that in her Oscar speech she apologized to fellow nominee Valentina Cortese whom she felt should have won that year for Truffaut’s “Day for Night.” But let’s take a moment to see Lauren Bacall at her obnoxious best:

  

Running on Empty. My other favorite Lumet film was loosely based on the lives of William Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn when they were fugitives in the Weather Underground. Chrisine Lahti and Judd Hirsch play 60s radicals who have been on the lam for many years because of a botched bombing. Whenever they feel the Feds hot on their trail, they move and change their identities, including those of their two sons. The older boy is played by the late River Phoenix whose burgeoning relationship with a young Martha Plimpton (the two were also matched in “The Mosquito Coast” as well as in real life) is one of the best depictions of young love I’ve ever seen on film.

Can you believe it’s been almost 20 years since Phoenix died outside of the Viper Room in Hollywood? He was not quite 18 when he shot “Running on Empty” and showed an emotional maturity and skill that belied his years. It’s hard not to wonder how his career would have developed had he survived—he’d only be 40 today. My favorite scene from “Running on Empty” is not very crucial to the plot of the film. It takes place when Phoenix brings Plimpton home to meet his family for the first time. While clearing up after dinner, they all start singing and dancing to James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” For me, at the time, this represented a fantasy of the perfect family. Who wouldn’t want such cool, hip, loving parents? Today, however, Hirsch and Lahti’s naïve leftist politics and their forcing their kids to be on the run seem just as oppressive as the establishment forces they were fighting against. To the parents’ credit, however, they finally realize this by the end of the film and set River free to pursue his own dreams.

  

Oh, and I just watched some of “The Wiz” and forget what I said about it being “so bad it’s good.” I think it’s just bad. No disrespect intended to Mr. Lumet who will be greatly missed, but take a look at this preview and judge for yourself!

  

Come on, Sydney, and ease on down, ease on down the road... 

Pink Pyjamas

As anyone who’s met me or has ever read my blog knows, I can never be accused of projecting a stereotypical testosterone-laced traditional male view of the world. I am about a thousand times more likely to write a blog post about Joan Crawford than I am about the NCAA playoffs. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. No, I’m not gay (as if gay people don't watch the NCAA playoffs!), and please don’t call me a “metrosexual.” Not only do I despise that term but I simply don’t qualify—I dress like crap, I’d happily live the rest of my life with one pair of worn sneakers, and around the house I’m more Oscar Madison than Felix Unger. But I do love to cook, I’d rather see a “chick flick” than any film starring “the Rock,” and I know so many Broadway showtunes I could be my musical theatre daughter’s permanent understudy. Ah, what freedom to never be a slave to rigidly defined gender roles, right? Think again.

My son Charlie (who officially turns two later this month but because of his extreme prematurity is 20 months “adjusted”) is the best-dressed baby I know even though we’ve rarely bought him any clothes. He is the lucky recipient of many fancy duds from his extended family and friends as well as mountains of adorable clothes that were passed down from friends and relatives whose kids have outgrown them. Kendall’s sister Brooke has two girls but that didn’t stop Kendall from pouring through our well dressed nieces’ hand-me-downs. Most items were rejected because they were so clearly “girls’ clothes” but Kendall did take a few unisex items including the pink-trimmed pyjamas Charlie wore to bed last night.

Perfectly cute, right? No reason why he shouldn’t wear these comfortable, perfectly good pyjamas, don’t you agree? Then why did my whole body constrict the first time I saw Kendall putting them on Charlie? I realize that most of what we know as gender stereotypes are completely arbitrary. I’m not talking about certain tendencies like the types of games boys and girls like to play that in some cases may be different according to gender. Some people would argue that even those differences are more “nurture” than “nature” but I’m not sure I agree. I do think that there may be some inherent differences between the way many (not all) boys and girls interact with their environment. But I think everyone on the planet would agree that the notion that “pink is for girls” and “blue is for boys” is a wholly arbitrary distinction that we’ve all, as a culture, decided to simply follow, mostly because of our own upbringing.

The son of a friend of ours, when he was younger, decided that he loved pink and was savvy enough, with the help of his hippie mom, to become a social activist about it, decrying the criticism he received from his peers as societal hogwash. My own nephew went through a phase when he was a toddler of wanting to paint his fingernails red and wear pigtails. My sister and brother-in-law didn’t make a big deal about it and this phase ended as quickly as it began. I recently saw a link on Facebook to a story called “Little Boy Pink” about a boy named Declan who likes wearing pretty dresses, tutus, and Mary Jane shoes with big purple flowers. His parents let him do as he liked and the specialists quoted in the article said that exercising such proclivities when they are young does not mean that such boys will suffer from any “gender confusion” when they are older.

The other morning I decided to take Charlie to Runyon Canyon, a popular hiking spot in the Hollywood Hills. I usually just leave him in his pyjamas for our morning outings, depending on the weather, but this day, because he was wearing his pink get-up, I contemplated changing him into something more “masculine.” Disgusted by my fears, I suppressed the desire and we went hiking up the mountain with Charlie strapped to my chest. “What an adorable little girl!” said one hiker as she passed us at Inspiration Point. Since I was huffing and puffing, I just smiled and said nothing. “How old is she?” asked a young mother pushing a stroller when Charlie and I were on our descent. “Oh, it’s a boy, and he’s almost two,” I said firmly, and instead of leaving it at that, I added “His pyjamas were passed down from his girl cousin. I know, I know—I should be arrested!” Oy, did I just say that? I should be arrested, all right—for my closeted Eisenhower-era values!

I never championed the color pink as a kid and I had no desire to wear girly clothes, but I was occasionally made fun of for my untraditional “non-boy” interests. I also had long hair for most of my childhood and was frequently mistaken for a girl. Is that what makes me sensitive to something as silly as Charlie wearing pink pyjamas? Walking down that hill I felt as offensive as President Reagan who, responding to innuendo about his ballet dancer son famously said, “He’s all man—we made sure of that!” But I’m not talking about sexuality here—if Charlie one day realizes that he is gay, I know that won’t be an issue. No, there’s something about being misidentified as a girl that raises my hackles. And as long as I’m outing myself, I’ll admit the secret (until now) satisfaction I get from the fact that Charlie is absolutely obsessed with trucks, cars, and other typical “boy” interests. Am I just a victim of societal programming even though (or maybe because) I have historically resided on the other side of the sliding scale? Am I a victim of PTSD from my own childhood taunting (which I have to admit really wasn’t that bad)?

Declan’s parents were encouraged to not make a big deal out of their son’s “cross-dressing,” especially at such an early age. According to the doctor quoted in the article, “When Declan puts on his cousin's tutu, he is simply playing with facts. Little boys in the preschool years are starting to learn about gender differences. To them, the differences are merely facts. When children 'cross-dress,' they are merely having fun with this new fact they've learned.’”

I remember when we found out Leah was going to be a girl how offended I was when some of my friends expressed relief, saying that I was more suited to raise a girl than a boy. That sentiment still infuriates me and I can’t tell you how much I love having the experience of raising a son, too. I just hope I’m man enough to accept Charlie putting on a tutu in a few years if that’s what he wants to do!