Watching “Ed Wood”

Last night Art and I had a truly fabulous night watching “Ed Wood”‘, a film made in 1994 starring Johnnie Depp in the title role with Martin Landau co-starring as Bela Lugosi. (Martin Landau won an Oscar for his performance, which, I am sure, was absolutely deserved.

First of all, if you don’t know, Ed Wood was a writer, director and producer of some of arguably some of the worst movies ever made. I haven’t laughed so hard in many years! Johnnie Depp as Ed Wood was, well, wooden in a way that must have been an enormous challenge for such a gifted actor. Most of all, he reminded me of Mickey Rooney in the Andy Hardy series of films. He mouthed the kind of “aw shucks” lines that under most circumstances would make me cringe — lines such as “The kids really love that sort of thing” (while making a pitch for one of his epically bad films).

On the other hand, just below the surface of the hilarious antics, there was a poignancy that broke your heart. Here was a man who was burdened with a secret compulsion to dress up in women’s clothing, a transvestite, who suffered greatly because of it. Still, he dutifully confessed to his future wife on their first date, afraid that later on she would, like his former girlfriend, discover the truth and abandon him. He was naive, vulnerable, and utterly honest. In a pivotal scene, he has been chafing under the scrutiny of a group of investors from the Beverly Hills Baptist Church, who are trying to wrest artistic control of his picture. He goes to the Brown Derby (an iconic Hollywood restaurant) and has a chance encounter with his idol, Orson Welles. Although at that time, Wood was outrageously dolled-up in drag, Welles seems oblivious to this and has a serious, artist-to-artist conversation with young Wood. Welles concludes the conversation by telling Ed that he must be true to his artistic vision. Wood, newly energized by this encouragement from one of the gods of Hollywood filmdom, goes back to his set and recaptures artistic control, going on to complete the crowning achievement of his career, “Plan Nine from Outer Space”. (I use the term “crowning achievement” in the broadest possible sense of the word).

There is another thread to the film which must be mentioned: Ed Wood stumbles upon the famed star of the horror genre of the ’30s and ’40s, the man synonymous with Dracula, Bela Lugosi. By the time Wood befriends the older man, Lugosi is “washed up” by all accounts, a drug addict whose wife has recently died, living alone in a very modest and unkempt house in Baldwin Hills with a pack of small dogs. Ed does his best to resurrect (pun intended) Lugosi’s career by starring him in several of his own pictures. There is a growing bond of friendship between the two men, and Lugosi comes to depend on Wood, so much so, that he calls Wood up on many occasions in dire peril. The younger man always shows up, always treats Lugosi with utter respect and reverence.

Over the years, there has been consensus among film historians that Ed Wood was, by most measures, the worst director of all time. Indeed, his movies were made on a shoestring budget, sloppy in their execution, and were built on concepts such as, “Grave diggers from outer space”. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that he was a man worthy of respect. Hollywood “chewed him up and spit him out”, just as it did many others. We’ll never know what Ed Wood might have been had he not been what he was. I don’t know whether the world is a better place for films like, “Plan Nine from Outer Space”. But I can say that he was a steadfast, loyal, and compassionate friend to Bela Lugosi and in general, conducted his personal life with integrity. Isn’t that the more important measure of a man?

FRIENDS – A GREAT INVESTMENT

FRIENDS – A GREAT INVESTMENT

They say that friendship is a lot of work. Sometimes, I admit, it does seem that way. Friends require that you check in with them on a fairly regular basis, hold their hands when they need it, hold your tongue when you must, forgive when they disappoint you, and thank them when they come through for you. Friends require that you remember their birthdays, send cards or gifts at Christmas, sympathize for their losses and help them to celebrate their victories. Friends require a modicum of honesty, but not brutal frankness. Friends require caring when you’re just too tired to care.

Maybe that’s why some people turn into hermits. People who are termed “schizoid” in psychological jargon tend to keep to themselves. They are the “loners”, the “workaholics” who stay long after all their colleagues have gone home to family, and often they are quite successful and may be described as having “tunnel vision”. They stay away from distractions – like other people. I guess you could say that such people find the necessity to protect themselves from possible hurt more urgent than the need to nourish their souls.

But good, true friendship – the kind that prevails over time, distance, and even memory, is a treasure worth fighting for. This morning Art and I spoke with a dear friend whom we have known for many years. Even though she lives halfway across the country and we only might see her once a year, if we’re lucky, the feeling between us is always one of warmth and kindness, with a lot of laughter thrown in for good measure. We must have been on the phone for over half an hour.

I used to think that family was enough. I used to think that friendship was somewhere farther down on my priority list than, say, career, or even grocery shopping. I no longer feel that way. Family is wonderful, and there is no substitute for family. But good friends become family as much as your biological family. And there is room and need for both in this life.

This morning we talked about our health and the health of our spouses, our families, pets, small discoveries, weather, and even the foliage in our respective climates at this time of year. Nothing exceptionally “deep” was discussed. The depth is underneath the words, like a score under a movie. You never really notice it, except perhaps in retrospect. It’s just there.

When we got off the phone this morning, I felt like my spirit had been bathed in warm sunlight. I felt someone had heard me, understood me, and appreciated me. And I felt I had been able to do the same for her. If you put it in terms of investment, this is what is known as a great rate of return.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS

WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS

Yesterday I got a call from a life-long friend. I had asked her to read the first draft of a screenplay – the first screenplay I had ever written. I knew that she had lots of experience with this sort of thing, so I knew that her opinion would be valuable.

I didn’t know that it would be painful.

She started out by saying that this was only her opinion, so I knew I was in for trouble. She said it was a “good first draft”. Then she proceeded to point out every flaw, every faux pas, every area in which it lacked substance – and there were plenty of those. Apart from all that – well, she didn’t say she hated it. (That I figured out for myself).

I must admit that I was pretty devastated. I had promised myself not to be defensive, no matter what, so when she inferred that the dialog was stupid, that the overall effort was an insult to my audience, and that the entire movie would be overly simplistic, I swallowed hard and thanked her for her honesty. We said goodbye with me plastering a smile over my face, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the lump in my throat. I considered going back into therapy.

The trouble for me is that somewhere deep down inside (or maybe not so deep) there is a little kid who longs for approval. So along with my innate love of words, I carry an equally compelling desire to have someone say, “What a clever little girl you are”! I hand over my homemade treasures to anyone who will take the time to read or listen to them and keep expecting that someone will recognize and honor my talent and hard work.

And how’s that working so far? About the way you would expect.

We must remember that Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime – except to his own brother, if memory serves. I should needlepoint that on to a pillow.

So the dilemma is – What to do? I am blessed and cursed with a desire to write. I can’t seem to prevent myself from seeking an audience for all this output. And when you think of the odds for any kind of success, you might think I’m just bonkers.

At the same time, I wonder what they said to Van Gogh? Did they tell him to hang it up and get a real job? And what if he had done just that? Would the world be a little poorer for not having his paintings of potato eaters and sunflowers? Would he have avoided cutting off his ear? Or would he have done something even more drastic, having cut off his own drive to create?

Well, I’m much recovered today. My friend gave me a lot of good, constructive criticism (even if it was hard to hear). I will go back to the drawing board, so to speak. I’m not ready to cut off my ear or my writing career. Not today, anyway. I’ve got too much work to do.

© 2005, Robin Munson

THE LOST ART OF NEIGHBORING

Back when I was growing up in Pittsburgh, we lived on Gettysburg Street. Our next door neighbors to the left (as you faced the street) were my Uncle Irv, my Aunt Bernice, and my cousins, Maira, Ronna, Richard and Mitchell. (Later on my cousins moved a mile or two away, and they were replaced by the Rosens). To our right was the Schultz family; Dr. Eddie, his wife, Gertie, and their boys, Leonard, Gerry, and Chucky. Just past the monastery driveway (just left of Uncle Irv and Aunt Bernice) were the Ziskinds, Joe, Mildred, Nancy, and the twins, Judy and Joyce. Next to the Ziskinds were the Kann family, Rhodie, Jeanie, Mona and Lisa. Across the street was a family I’ll call the Snoot family – Mrs. Snoot didn’t like us because we were Jewish. Just to Mrs. Snoot’s right a few doors down were the Mulvahills and their daughter, Marilyn – and so on. Maybe this is more information than you ever wanted about Gettysburg Street, but I’m sharing this information to make a point. These were people I last saw (excluding my aunt and uncle and cousins) maybe forty-five years ago – and yet they remain strong in my memory.

For years, all of the neighborhood kids used to play in our back yard because we shared a back yard with our cousins, so we had one great big place to play, bordered by woods. There were snow forts and sledding in the winter and softball games and lightning bugs in the summer. There were barbecues. Neighbors would show up on a regular basis to borrow a cup of sugar. There were coffee klatsches from time to time in our kitchen. My younger sister was best friends with Nancy down the street and they would have sleep-overs and were regular guests at one another’s homes for dinner. Marilyn Mulvahill and I used to walk down to the corner store together to cash in our soda bottles and buy penny candy with the loot.

I don’t know what happened between 1960 and 2004, but just ask yourself – How many of your neighbors can you name? How many times have you struck up a conversation with someone next door, let alone down the street? I myself began to notice that I had very little contact with my neighbors in my adult life. I would be hard pressed to name a single neighbor I had between the ages of 20 and 40. I wondered if it was just the phase of life I was in, but then I remembered the camaraderie of the grown-ups in my neighborhood early on.

The advantage to that kind of living was that it gave you a warm fuzzy feeling to know that there were people nearby who knew you, knew who you were, and would notice if anything was wrong. Most likely, they would call the police if they noticed a burglar trying to break in while you were away. There were no “Neighborhood Watch” associations, because there was no need for them. Neighbors watched out for each other without having to be assigned rotating shifts.

Perhaps the disadvantage was that you lost a little of your privacy, and all of your anonymity. We as Americans tend to value our privacy and anonymity very highly, and with good reason. We don’t really want anyone giving us the third degree about why we were out late last night or when we intend to mow the lawn, since it’s getting a tad out of hand. Maybe that’s why the sit-com “Everybody Loves Raymond” is so hilarious. We can all sympathize with Raymond and Robbie who are under the microscope of their parents (the ultimate in intrusive neighbors) 24/7 . On the other hand, I find myself thinking how nice it would be to have your parents right across the street, especially when you need a nice hot bowl of soup or a shoulder to cry on. That’s what makes that show so appealing.

All of this began to percolate in my brain last night. We have recently become friends with one of our neighbors down the street, Judith, a lovely woman with whom I share a lot of common interests. On a whim, we invited her over for dinner last night, and we all had such a good time. It was not a fancy dinner. It wasn’t even planned. But we heated up a frozen Trader Joe’s Eggplant Parmesan and made a salad. I heated up some soup and put bread on the table. Judith brought a nice bottle of wine, and we all toasted our health. We talked at the table until about eight o’clock, and then we walked her the hundred yards or so to her house so she wouldn’t have to walk alone in the dark. I have to tell you that this was a far superior way to spend the evening than watching the Gloom and Doom News on television.

Art and I have begun to really get to know many of our neighbors. There are so many interesting people on our street and around the block! They’re all different, and yet we all have so much in common. It’s that warm and fuzzy feeling coming back, after all these years. And yes, I could recite a litany of the names of our neighbor friends in Hollywood Manor, but for now, I’ll spare you. I’ll just say that I highly recommend saying hello, or even just waving or smiling next time you see your neighbor. It feels really good.

VAMPIRES

Well, yesterday was Halloween and tomorrow is Election Day, and I don’t know which is scarier.

Anyway, Halloween put me to mind of vampires. No, not the kind that they show in the movies, but the kind that you run into day after day, probably without knowing it, most of the time.

I used to have a friend. I’ll call her Madame X. Madame X was one of the sweetest people I ever met. She seemed to be sympathetic, caring, and kind. She was intelligent and quick-witted. As a matter of fact, I had no complaints with Madame X until I noticed a tiny little problem: She had a tendency, once given an opening, to hold the floor endlessly. I was amazed by the sheer volume of her monologues. They could go on and on for so long – and there was never any question or pause included in her speech, so there was no way for me to respond. The best I could do was to interject such utterances as, “Is that so?!” and “Oh, my!” and “Wow!” and “Hmmmm” and “I see.” I would do this to remind her that I was there. At first I thought my friend was just a little lonely and in need of a sympathetic ear. But after a while, it sank in. This was her way of relating. She really wasn’t interested in hearing from the other side of the table. On the contrary.

I began to notice my reaction to this. We would be at a restaurant for a pleasant lunch, and after three minutes of the preliminaries, “Hi-how-are-you?” and “Fine-How-are-you?”, she was off and running. Two hours later, I would find myself nearly comatose, falling asleep in my capuccino, drained, unable to move, and dying to be somewhere – anywhere- other than where I was. I was ruined for the day, incapable of any meaningful activity.

Finally, I had to separate myself from Madame X once and for all. It was difficult and painful, and I did it with a heavy heart, not wanting to hurt her, but not knowing any other way to protect myself.

I wouldn’t bother to tell you about Madame X, except that she is only one example among many I have experienced in my life. I’m not sure whether the explanation is that the “vampire” is secretly angry (thus explaining the sensation of having been attacked after having endured one of these marathons) or whether she is simply depressed and needs to “spill” for relief. Both of these explanations seem plausible to me. But they don’t change the outcome.

The thing about vampires is that you have to run from them. Run like hell. In the end, it doesn’t matter whether a vampire is really good at heart. Allow yourself a smidgeon of rudeness. Make something up. Say you suddenly have a headache. Say you hear your mother calling. Say you just remembered you had a dentist’s appointment. Anything.

Oh, one or two encounters now and then with a vampire might just leave you a quart or two low temporarily, but a quart here, a quart there, and pretty soon you’re drained dry.

Well, on to Election Day. (Clearly, the scarier of the two days). Don’t forget to vote!

FRIENDS WE HAVEN’T MET

Back when I was young and foolish, I thought that there was no rhyme or reason to the people who peopled my life. I just thought that the universe was random. If there was a Higher Power, it was capricious and inscrutable (apparently, lazy in spite of Its omnipotence). Therefore, I gave no thought to the meaning of chance meetings.

I think everything changed for me when I faced a life-threatening illness four and a half years ago – this on the heels of having lost my father only a month before. Suddenly, life looked very fragile and precious to me. I know, it’s the oldest story in the book, but there it is. For a while, I didn’t know whether I would live to see the next Christmas. I had watched my father’s life sputtering out for months. Now I myself faced the same possibility. I had no choice but to get very philosophical.

As I lay in the hospital bed after surgery (and by the way, “hospital bed” is a misnomer – they are really examining tables with hard pillows) – personnel wandered in and out of my room at all hours. There were doctors, nurses, technicians, orderlies, candy stripers, even clergy. In the haze of my medicated state, they all seemed like angels to me. Every single person who walked into my room had their own story, their own problems, their own pain. And yet, they came to give me their undivided attention, their compassion, and their energy. It sounds strange, but during my hospital stays I felt amazingly safe and cared for. I could feel the prayers of friends and strangers being sent up for me before and after my surgery. When transfusions were given, I could sense the love with which people who had never met me had offered up some of their life force so that I could survive.

I must note that I was extremely lucky in that my family made sure I was never alone in the hospital. My sweet husband, my mother, my sisters, all took turns staying with me. They had a round-Robin (literally) in which one would walk in with their overnight bag when the other walked out. My family supported me in such a way that I could not possibly come to harm. I know that, and I want to thank them for the zillionth time for their untiring love. When I was too groggy to know the difference, they would make sure that the medicine in the IV matched the medicine prescribed in the chart. They would ask the doctor or the nurse to go over instructions for home care for the fifth time. They would ask for more medication when I was in pain. So I want to take a moment to acknowledge that, too. Everyone needs at least one good advocate in the hospital, not because there is anything wrong with the people who staff the hospital, but because hospitals are typically understaffed; you have one talented and dedicated person trying to do the work of five talented and dedicated people.

I guess you could say that all of this made me grateful. I am filled with gratitude for the kindness I have received over the past four and a half years. I have developed a theory about all this, too. I think that whatever the Higher Power (I don’t think He/She cares what name you use) – there is a carefully orchestrated reason for each encounter in our lives. Looking back now, I can see it with much more clarity.

When we moved to Kingston Springs, Tennessee from Los Angeles, California, we unknowingly bought a house next door to two of the dearest people we had ever met. J.P. and B.B. turned out to be so much more than good neighbors. They are, to this day, our close friends. I feel that B.B. is my long-lost sister from Mississippi. J.P., as it turns out, is an artist and musician with whom we have a lot in common. We could never have planned that. But Somebody could.

We came back to Los Angeles a few years ago to be with family. Just recently, we have been befriended by a neighbor two doors down. She is so much like I was at her age, and in some ways, so much like I am now, that talking to her is like talking to myself. We had an instant rapport, and I believe we will remain friends regardless of where life takes us.

A chance conversation with a woman in my chorale got me in touch with a fantastic voice teacher who is a mentor and a kindred spirit. Even though I am not taking voice lessons right now, I know that I have a great deal more to learn from her about many things, and we will remain friends.

And now, even when we go to a restaurant, I see the person serving our food as someone with whom there is a relationship, no matter how brief it might be. Why were we assigned to that particular person? Are they in need of cheering up? Am I in need of cheering up? How can we serve each other?

My mother-in-law, a wise woman who has taught me a lot, has a favorite adage. It would be easy to dismiss such a statement as a cliché. But a cliché only becomes a cliché because, darn it, they’re usually true: “There are no strangers; only friends we haven’t met”.