Tag Archives: research

Making Choices

7 Jan

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It’s endless. 

…The supply of facts, figures, and analysis on Sullivan and Keller seems to stretch on infinitely.  Which is wonderful, don’t get me wrong…but it is also frequently debatable from one source to the next…with something as universally “go-to” as Wikipedia being the least academically sound posting of all.  The fact that anyone can contribute to it, is obviously the problem, but that it is likely the first place people will go for info on the topic, pisses me off.  It’s all over the place with inaccuracy…

…As are (from time to time) various books.  I’ve a small shelf of them in my brain now…not counting other articles, reports, essays and such.  Each time I open a new one, it sends me diving back into my now almost 400 pages of notes and clippings, to fact-check something I distinctly remember being reported as another date, time, location, argument, or note of reference.  At this point, I’m forced to use averaging to choose accuracy…in that if I’ve read it twice as this date, and once as that one, I’ll consider the original two reports as correct, unless the scales start to counter with a third option, or added numbers to one or the other of the first two. 

…How the hell can you get facts this way?

 You would think that with two such widely noted historical people, and archives scattered all over the country in their own handwriting, we could get together on some specifics …but it’s surprising to me how much is left out, misstated, inferred, or simply made up, to fill the gaps between days and years and functions…not only when the written and archived materials were lost or (in some cases) purposely destroyed…but even when a picture of a dated letter in Sullivan’s own handwriting states a fact, readily available to view from the Perkin’s archives online, without even leaving your chair.

It’s irritating.  And frustrating.

…First of all: Helen was 6, not 7…Annie 20 not 21 when they met in 1887.  It’s as easy as knowing their birth-months to calculate. AND IT MATTERS.  It matters because they were REAL people, because the difference between 6 and 7 is the difference between what should have been a first grade education and a second grade one…which matters to a child with zero education up to that point, in as much as Helen had to learn not only how to function day-to-day in a seeing and hearing world, and be taught what we spend our infancy learning about basic human interactions, etiquette, feeling, reactions, desires, disappointments, and frustrations…but also how to spell every word that made up every sentence she spoke, as well as grammar and formal sentence structure, mathematics up to and including multiplication tables, to read raised letters and braille, and print square letters in full composition format…as well as learn basics in earth sciences, history, astronomy, and geography, at an age when the average school child is just beginning basic reading, and simple addition and subtraction.

She was 6!

YOU couldn’t do that at 6!  You couldn’t do it at 7 either. Hell, the average adult can’t manage it NOW …but that isn’t the point. The point is: FACTS. 

…And Annie, at 20?  With only six years education…not “formal” mind you, just plain “education” of any kind…under her belt.? Yet, she took up the only post offered to her after graduation, sending her 1200 miles away, where she would be paid the equivalent of $625 (today’s calculation), plus room and board, per month, as a governess to a wild-child neither she nor anyone she knew had ever set eyes on.

…Adding to that her OWN handicapped circumstance (which seems to be frequently forgotten in all this), as well as the difference between “success” (whatever THAT meant) and “failure,” separating the the facts of either earning a living the only way she could fathom how, or going back to the State Alms or Work House.

…No pressure THERE.

It ALL MATTERS.

…So it bothers me when I have holes in the info that I can’t dig up.  The traces are gone (in some cases)…in others, we have only word-of-mouth to go on…and I trust even the written ones little enough as it is. The main point of contention I now face, being: Annie’s voice.

Her disposition is well noted, her temper, her inclination for finery and beauty and nature, her love of poetry and Shakespeare and virtually every other form of the written word…she was a talented sculptor, a fine horsewoman, occasionally composed verse, had an almost photographic memory of stories, anecdotes, and amusing tales, had a very wry and bitingly quick wit, was terrible at spelling and mathematics, hated anything to do with “sewing notions,” fought depression and anxiety, could at times be emotionally crippled with PTSDs from her childhood…in her top-most form, only attained 50% of her sight, eventually going fully blind, loved to cook, and had a monstrous affection for animals .  Add to that about a billion other fact and figures I have ferreted away…and I’ve come up with a pretty solid idea of the woman as she would stand, day-to-day…but it is (with all of that) in mute form.

…There is only ONE surviving sample of her voice, at age 62…and is a mix between the heavily elocution-trained musicality of Hollywood grande-dames from the early talkies, and an east-coaster wideness, in evidence of her Boston school years.  We know, that though born in the U.S., her constant surroundings through childhood amidst the Irish Immigrant population (including her parents, uncles, aunts, and the Almshouse after), left her with the mimicry of an Irish brogue…strong enough to be self-conscious of it (along with everything else about herself) when she entered Perkin’s School for the Blind, at age 14. 

…We know that in her valedictorian speech, six years later, she was reported by several newspapers attending the exercises as having, “a grace of expression,” “…with genuine refinement.”  Assuming then, that she’d worked her ass off to oust that accent, along with her other less savory childhood habits.

…Yet, Historical biographer Kim Nielsen suggests she still had some semblance of a lilt, even if only faintly, as late as Helen’s beginning of college at Radcliffe in 1900…which puts Annie at age 34. In other instances, Helen had been noted to ask if Teacher had an accent and was told “no,”…though had it been by Annie, herself, she could have preferred this as the answer to the reality. Meanwhile, on the flip side, Helen was able to note the differences in accents from Northerners and Southerners based on vocal vibrations felt by hand, at least by Annie’s second year with her. Whether the question was asked prior or after that, and if it was queried based on an oddness that Helen found in Annie’s speech, which fit neither in straight “North” or “South” categories, is unknown.

…Time, tons of speaking engagements, a stint in vaudeville, travels abroad, and further self-education very easily explains how we get from whatever-her-voice-sounded-like-then, to the 62-year-old version from the short video.  But the amount of previous affectation and when it was changed is still up for debate.

…The ever-copied full-on brogue that Anne Bancroft won her Tony and Oscar with, however, is not.

That was a simple solution created to help break a heavy Bronx-Jewish accent from her 750 performances of the previous Gibson play, “Two for the Seesaw,” she’d just completed before “Miracle” rehearsals began.  It was a quick fix that director Arthur Penn had come up with to help her speech patterns refocus, and is frequently copied in most productions which have followed…one assumes as either lack of research, or reverence to  “the one who came before” (and won all the awards, while she was at it.)

…Either way…thankfully Mdm. Director was in the “without” camp, letting the Irish feistiness show through in her many other aspects of expression.  I have enough to do without having the ghost of Bancroft’s ridiculously amazing performance haunting my every move. This leaves me a mode to create distance from her.  We’re both playing her in our 30’s, both keeping in mind the premature sobering a childhood like hers can have on “youth,” both ball-buster broads, and since she’s been a teacher of mine all my life…I’m even at war to break her specific cadence with these lines running in my head.

…What I get now, is the gift to create a sound, specific to where Annie is in her own history and education at that point in time.  With so many historical facts to get down, this freedom to invent her sound freely, has been (and still is) a major working point, and the essence of my own thumbprint on her.

…Mdm. Director has chosen to bring out the hint of brogue as-was in childhood, for the flash-back nightmare sequences… so I’ve countered, adding a taste in other key moments such as an added sense of play when making fun of herself…and, following a pattern which happens to most people with a previous affectation, to bring it out a bit whenever she gets angry or overwrought. 

…Basically…the flavor is still there…but not necessarily to where you pick up on the specifics of it…only: she has a different way of talking.  She is still at times fighting against it, like a war with her wanting-to-be-more-cultured self… sometimes embracing it, as solace when alone and frustrated or emotional…sometimes getting caught up in it, despite herself.

Figuring out how to do all that and make it unconscious, a matter of mental state, a peculiarity of just how “unfinished” this girl is herself, never mind with the weight of the extraordinary challenge facing her…I think it will help to convey the constant struggle, the lack in her own education, and the reminder that these two people are just beginning.  They have a long, long way to go…in life journey, in education, in everything they will achieve that hasn’t even been thought of yet.

 …Every day, it’s a total joy to remember all that, lace up my boots, and begin.

~D

Mark Twain Said It First

28 Nov

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In 1909, Mark Twain inscribed one of his photographs to a 43 year-old woman. 

…She was a celebrity in her own right, due to the fact that years previously…half blind, and with only six years of education under her belt, she’d graduated valedictorian of her class. The following summer, answering a posting as a teacher and governess, she began her journey, eventually arriving at a small southern town over 1200 miles away from any place she had ever called ” home.”

All by the age of 20.  

Nevermind the fact that before age 14, she was blind, deserted with her brother in the poorhouse,  slept on a cot beside the alter in the dead-house for 4 years, had never owned a comb, or been given a single day of education.

…Despite it all, by the time Mark Twain inscribed his photograph, she had already managed to begin a life-long friendship with Alexander Graham Bell, met President Grover Cleveland by special appointment in Washington DC, was on several National Education Committees, and helped her only student across the past 22 years, gain a Bachelor of Arts degree from Radcliff College, cum laude.  

That student, was Helen Keller.

…The first blind-deaf graduate to ever earn a BA…never mind in Ivy League…whose tireless work for equality, education and rights for minorities and specifically the deaf and blind, would send her (and her Teacher) to speak and advocate in nearly every country on the planet… inspiring Eleanor Roosevelt to deem Keller, “Good Will Ambassador to the world.”

…None of which would have been possible, had not someone broken through the black silence, giving her the key of communication. Just 26 gestures in a cupped hand. Letters, which spelled out words. Words that had a meaning.

The inscription, the enamored Samuel Clemens had written on his photograph, summed an entire world-wide view, from every country with a newspaper and a finger to the pulse of current events, science, and education at the time:

“To Mrs. John Sullivan Macy with warm regard and with limitless admiration of the wonders she has performed as a miracle-worker.”
~ Mark Twain

So the story begins. 

A child of illiterate Irish immigrants, with the tenaciously stubborn spirit to survive her ruined childhood of desertion, hunger, disease, and abuse…who fought her way though poor house, blindness, massive medical undertakings, and loss of every family member by age ten; to become the only hope to a blind-deaf child from a privileged southern family, seemingly an entire world away from all she had ever known, and become the first woman in history to be interred at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C., solely on her own merit.

…This, but the tip of the iceberg in beginning research for another bucket list role, coming up this February:

Miss Annie Sullivan.

…An astonishingly large pair of button-up boots to fill.

I adore biographical plays. They are my absolute favorite…bringing out the amazing communion of history in completely living form. The hours and hours of research like a detective-archeologist…chipping away across page after page, quote after quote…to piece together notes, facts, letters, theories…to dig in archives, build timelines, and fill notebooks with endless findings in scribbles. To get the absolute closest you can to the bone of the person. To, in the end, commune with them in hopes you bring out the fullest version possible…honoring them with the portraying of informed “truth,” as best as you can grasp it.

Since the moment I first sat shocked and thoroughly awed by Annie Bancroft and Patty Duke’s performances on film…I’ve wanted to know what it would be like, to be IN that stubborn Irish skin, myself.

…To see what I could do, if I studied very hard, learned all I could, and let her come out as she needed to, with me as her vessel.

And now, I get to.

And WHAT an honor.

…Little did I know before the research began…just how much she had to offer, and from how far she had come to achieve it all.

A miracle worker, indeed.

Now, to meet my OWN hellishly brilliant little Helen.

…And begin as Annie once did: to earn the trust and find a singular way to communicate and bond with this new little person, entrusted in my care.

It’s you n’ me kid, with a stellar team to guide n’ support us. Let’s do ’em proud.

~D

 
 

Studification

24 Nov

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I’m studying a lot.

…Like over 100 pages into a notebook absolutely crammed, notated and highlighted within an inch of its life.

And I’m having a total wigging-out blast.

…Cuz “learning” is the all-the-time “sexy.” Just ask Einstein. Dude was a stone cold theory-flinging fox.

…Graham Bell gave some good brain too…

…But the best part about learning stuff is when you realize that the active process of doing it, is like the original version of the internet. In your head.

…Cuz “learning” is such a fucking black-hole process. You start out with a book on Picasso, and come up with a Google history, end-of-night, including everything from “cows of Peru,” “stained glass windows,” “famous nun affairs,” “African art influences,” “french prositution laws,” “Einstein theories,” “plastic arts,” “Francisco Franco,” “French Rivera,” “communist vs socialist,” “famous maquettes,” and “neo-expressionism” to…”Harlequin rose period,” and “Spanish civil war.”

The brain, when fed a suggestion of curiosity, goes on a total drunken bender for insta-knowledge as addendum to this other thing you’re actually trying to retain and process… until your Chrome has like 68 tabs open for cross referencing, your hand is getting writers cramp, you’ve reloaded the printer paper twice, and have totally run out of tape.

…It’s a good problem to have. When you like learning. Which I do. Only when you do it at this level of focus, it’s pretty fucking exhausting…making the eyes burn from bouncing back and forth, paper to screen…and forgetting to eat and drink things, cuz you were busy for like ten hours trying to find this one thing.

…But I digress.

…Not as much as the “alternate use for pickle juice” search (you’re welcome), or “scary Steven hawking quotes” (hey’ if I have to freak out, you have to freak out)…but still…

…It’s a thing.

And it’s been super fun.

…But I’m really tired now. and my contacts feel like sandpaper.

…So I guess that leaves this other stack of clippings for tomorrow.

…Except now I sorta wanna go Google Picasso. As he was totally not my actual topic of study at all…

~D

The Importance Of Being Busy

14 Aug

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The office is dead, the show is in work-runs, The Gnome has swollen up to three times her size, I’m on my 12th cup of Keurig, and Cecil just dropped off her application.

…This is what makes “news” for the week, aside from the depressing stuff.

…Depressing stuff that is slamming every news outlet and social media page, for good reason, yet there is only so much a person can take, becoming so saturated and consumed by it all.

I understand it.  I take it in.  I choose to process it privately. 

Two of my teachers passed this week, and it doesn’t matter if one had an active part in the decision and the other had lived a full and rich life…it sucks either way, when it is the creative-force of a mentor leaving the world-stage.

Period.

…So, I join in with others in celebrating their work through festing their films, and get on with mine…which is what they would want me to do. But with a little, “O Captain, my captain”…and “You know how to whistle, don’t yuh Steve?” playing in my mental background.

…A background consumed in constant line runs, ad-nauseam, in “Red Dwarf”-a-thons, to get Lister’s scouser cadence permanently tattooed into my brain…in reading Whitman and Ferlinghetti…in revisiting director’s notes, and blocking…and trying to decide which of the 36 monologues I’ll pluck out and work on today.  I’ve plenty to keep me busy…which is good as the office is supplying almost nothing to that end, for freak reasons during our peak season, that I can’t for the life of me figure out.

Meanwhile, the sweltering and suffocating heat in this Kennedy Administration building has been kicking our one little wall-unit-air-conditioner’s ass…even when turned on at 5am…which has us sweating by 8:30, despite all efforts, while in the lobby The Gnome melts puddles all over her desk and floor.

…Being this pregnant makes absolutely nothing look comfortable, and it makes heat and humidity look like fucking torture. This once tiny, tiny human, has even moved on from her basketball-bump phase, and started to swell up in the arms and legs to the point of near bursting, across this past week or so. 

…Worse timing ever, one could say.  And she does.  Frequently.  Not that I fucking blame her.  I’d be the worst complainer EVER, in this situation. Which is why: Don’t ever forget Mother’s Day, like EVER.  These people lived in a nine-month-long solitary-bodily-confinement, at torturous levels, for us.  One should at least score a phone call and card for that, yeah?

…And speaking of Gnomes, (or at least this one), we’ve gotten our clever back-up for her confinement and leave-time, which will put Cecily and Gwendolen together again…only this time in office adventures.  Which I’m super stoked about because not only is she an actually competent person who I won’t have to continually train and re-train to do the job she was hired for (as I frequently do now), but it’ll make for amusing FB status updates. 

…Things like:

“Cecil and Gwen + tacos, at tea.”

…Training sessions like:

“The good ended happily, and the bad: unhappily. That is what Customer Service means. In matters of prepping importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.” 

…Not to mention endless chatting opportunities like:

Gwen: I am known for the gentleness of my disposition…
Cecil: –And the extraordinary sweetness of your nature–
Gwen: …But if I hear that woman bitch one more time, so help me god, it may necessitate murder.

…or…

Cecil: …Cute UPS guy!
Gwen: Mmmm. Has nothing, but looks everything…
Cecil: …What more could you desire…?

…The cheese whiz of possibility is endless…ENDLESS I TELL YOU!

And hells yes, I will be banking on it.

~D

34, Of 55, Plus Some Dead People

29 Jul

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Have well-passed the 50% marker for lines, now riding at pg 34 of 55, including 36 monologues soupin’ ’round in my brain as we speak. 

…Add to that the independent study sessions, and a couple specific character assignments by Mdm Director, and I’m rounding out nicely. 

“Songs of Innocence and Experience” (Blake),  wasn’t a fav, but then I’ve never been ape for poetry to begin with. Did take to a few of the 46 in that collection though: The Little Black Boy, The Chimney Sweeper,  and The Divine Image from the first movement, deal with race relations, child labor, and the collective responsibility of man’s humanity to man in ways that you could see heavily influenced Dickens (whom I love.)

Earth’s Answer, The Clod & The Pebble, The Sick Rose, The Angel, and The Garden of Love, from the later movement, focus on recognizing and redeeming the sullied soul of mankind, domination of ownership, bitterness of corruption, the mistake of regret and hardening of the heart. No surprise that I preferred the second movement to the first…thanks to richer imagery. London, itself was prob’ly the most depressing (and at the time true) portrait represented…offering not a single hope towards salvation. But then, in 1794 with war and revolution, what the hell would you expect?

…Personally, I’m enjoying my re-visit at “Howard’s End” (Forster), much more, though Rita doth protest it…MUCH.

It’s obvious why…as the most doomed character is someone she can so keenly empathize with: being in more or less the same social structure, hoping that self-study and book-learning alone will save one from the doomed destiny they were born into. She reads this in prep for her very first lesson with Frank…when she is not yet able to separate her subjectivity and sentimentality from literary criticism. It’s interesting how literal she takes the words that are spoken, and how personal a jab she sees them make at her own background. It paints a very different picture, while reading it through her eyes. The level of becoming totally incensed at the injustice of the social and political situations, from both the weaker and more powerful players, feeds her to not only go on a tirade about it, but cite it several times later in her study, as a continued annoyance. Makes me wonder if she picked it up again at the end of the play, (a year-and-a-half after her studies first began), would she view it the same way or actually be able to see with the subtlety of a more educated eye, the wide-scheme commentary it was written to be?

…I’d like to think, if given a second chance, she’d learn some things from Forster too. I’d like to think, someday she’ll be wandering around a dusty book store, see the title of a beat-up copy there on the shelf, sniff haughtily, and take it down while muttering to herself about how crappy it is. Then just scan it a bit…then a bit more…until her mutterings stop and she realizes how changed the words as-printed have become to her.

…And maybe…if she’s got a five-pound note in her bag, she might end up taking it home with her, again…and when she’s finished it, seek out Frank’s address, for a quick note. Something like:

***

Dear Frank,

Against m’better judgement, I’ve given “Howard’s bleedin’ End” a go, again. Not that it’s the greatest piece of literature ever writ, but…I guess it’s not quite the “crappier than crap,” I first thought.

…Though I still say Henry Wilcox, can kiss me arse.

~Rita.

***

…Anyway, halfway through “Howard’s,” then onto “Rubyfruit Jungle”, (by Rita Mae Brown) whom Rita has selected as her namesake…which I seriously cannot wait to jump into. I’m picturing it as a cross ‘tween a lesbian coming-of-age book, mixed with some “Lolita,” and a harlequin novel. I could be wrong…but that sounds about what would turn her on. We shall see…

Meanwhile, great homework from the boss thrown in, prompting a couple essays on how the constantly repeated “I want to know” quote changes throughout the text:

* Simple truth and curiosity
* Voracious hunger
* Frustrated irritation
*Ongoing quest for more

…As well citing the ties that restrict and bind her:

* Political and economic restrictions from outset
* Lack of education
* Peer pressure and expectation
* Wifely responsibilities
* Self-worth

…Along with a new one to work on: The affect of Frank’s alcoholism on Rita, with regards to her past dealings on the subject in her own life.

All good meat to chew and digest. Anyone who says that comedy is all fluff, is an idiot. ‘Course, this is not a normal comedy. There’s very little “normal” about it to my viewing. It’s a deliciously complicated duet where the highs and lows never quite match up but get close enough to kissing, to keep you on the edge of the seat…hoping…til the end.

~D

Link

The Writer Callus

22 Jul

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I miss school.

…Not the institution, you realize…the study that goes with it.

I miss reading and writing endless essays. I miss the notebooks, chicken scratched thoughts scribbled and outlined through a text until it comes out looking like a theatre script, mid-rehearsal. I miss the debates over themes and content. I miss mining all the layers that literature can hold in simple sentences printed on a page.

As an adult, all my reading and study has derived from pleasure, not pressure. I take in the books I know like the back of my hand, because I love them…I’ll occasionally read a light fiction easy-read because it was once recommended. But when I have no class to go to, no paper to write, no actual “reason” to dig into something like a slim novella of poetry and really break down what in the hell they mean…I just don’t. I’ll read it (maybe) and take what I want, what I took at first glance from it, then move along. But there is a loss in doing that…the “study” of writing as an art. Beyond plot.

…I miss that.

And so, I’ve taken the cue from m’next show, as Rita, to put myself through the paces these next two months. Apart from studying the script and character, I’ve a whole load of additional works to consume…pieces, and authors, and works of art which are sited within the script. I’ve charged myself to retrace Rita’s footsteps…to follow her path of discovery, with some of my own.

…It’s been two days at work, filling the down time with googling, and printing, cutting and taping, collecting reading lists and quotations and poems and paintings, and massing them into a black Piccadilly notebook, to be translated and studied later. Every literary reference, every author, every theme listed out in neat lines, a mass of poems printed, and liner notes begun. Of the three hours wherein not so much as a phone call rang through the office today, I secured three monologues (with attending dialogue) into my brain, and wrote themes on twelve poems from Dylan Thomas, William Blake, Henrik Ibsen, Roger McGough, & Oscar Wilde.

…And in the words of Rita herself, “It was FUCKING FANTASTIC!”

My hand written scribbles cover pages and pages, the side of my hand marked with lead from adding side notes to theme ideas, and that callus…my old friend on the rest of my middle finger, has re-dented in supplication from the constant pressure of a pencil.

I am back! That nerd-kid who would spend hours, over-writing by three or more pages, every essay she had ever been charged to write out. The kid who, (because of necessity) was forced to become a pretty decent editor, getting to the meat of the matter, tapping into the veins of a piece or a character…which would become that essential theatre tool I’d carry with me, for ever and ever. That kid who eats up language styles and word choices like its ice cream, who’d rather get lost in languidly profuse imagery, in a specific smell explained in words, in a world entirely fictional yet familiar, than almost anything else.

My brain is hungry as Rita’s, and I’m so thankful to have this extra time, this extended rehearsal period, to really dig in and build her piece by piece, poem by poem, book by book. In case you’d like to knock along with me a bit…here’s today’s list:

* And Death Shall Have No Dominion – Thomas
* The Sick Rose – Blake
* Gone – Ibsen
* You and I – McGough
* Let Me Die A Young Man’s Death – McGough
* Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night – Thomas
* Survivor – McGough
* The Blossom – Blake
* The Clod And The Pebble – Blake
* The Grave Of Shelley – Wilde
* In The Picture Gallery – Ibsen
* The Survivors – Ibsen

…Lots more to come.

*joy!*

~D

Good EEEEEEEEve’ning

11 Aug

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He never got an Oscar, but he’s m’top choice of subject for my final, 365th blog of the year.

…That’s right, tonight is IT, sweeties.  I’ve done did it.

A blog a day for one full year.

…Come rain, shine, sleet, snow…come crap-days or fine, during rehearsals and shows…two a.m., midnight, or noon-thirty…every day: a blog.  Something.  Prob’ly not great, but there…as I promised they would be. 

…And tonight, instead of focusing on what in the hell it all means in retrospect, I’ve decided not to.  Mostly because (in keeping with the trend of a lot of these entries), I haven’t the time.

…I’m studying, you see.  Up to my chin in show prep, I’m twenty films deep into the Major General of Maguffin: Mr. Hitchcock himself.  Taking notes like a good girl on all the intimate, insider details of his famous blonde Divas and their particular brand of “yum.” (Not to mention his love affair with the naughty villain Dames.) It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with his most famous of trademarks (second only to his profile)…but undertaking becoming three of them, requires a new swipe at the film stock, with a new filter in focus. 

I have always been a GIANT Hitch fan.  His sick little macabre sense of humor, his constant re-invention of the cinematic wheel, the thumbprints he uses on scripts he shoots…and how many ways he can manage to make “murder” and “suspense” one of the sexiest foreplays EVER, made him a favorite from day-one. 

…I’m already holding his early Hollywood classics like “Rebecca,” “Notorious,” “Spellbound,” “Suspicion” and “Shadow of a Doubt” snugly in my head from repeat-repeat viewings.  His golden years as well, with “Vertigo,” “Rear Window,” “Dial M for Murder,” To Catch a Thief,” “North by Northwest,” “Psycho,” “Rope, ” “Strangers on a Train,” “The Birds” and “Torn Curtain.”  When I say, “I love me some Hitchcock,” I seriously mean it.  I’ve twenty of his titles (well known and lesser) in my own library so far, with an Amazon wish-list holding the rest, plus every new bells-n-whistles Bluray and Criterion version of any already owned ones.

…Which made watching this show, “The 39 Steps,” IN London, IN the Criterion Theatre, with all it’s zillion Easter egg nods at Hitch “other” works, about one of the dork-coolest things I’ve ever panted through while wearing a shit-eatin-grin the entire time…in my life.

…Tonight, I’m playing with my old friend again.  Watching old favorites in a new light, with a goal in mind, and having a whole lotta fun while it’s happening.

So, excuse the lack of anniversary touting from a full year’s work come to a close.

Tonight, I’m just too busy to bother.  I’m on a date. With the Master of Suspense.

And it’s hawt 🙂

So ends this blog (and “North by Northwest.”)

…What, oh what, will come next???

~D

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