That Uncertain Feeling (1941)
Yes we’ve all had it. What do we do about it? Is it a very real hint that we’re going mad, or is it just, well, pique? I’ve had that ‘uncertain feeling’ all my life; the sense that I am about to fall apart. Someone was yakking on about Howie Mandel (who I just googled — he comes up when you google ‘obsessive compulsive comedian’). He feels as if he is going to die every minute of every day. I had a friend who was also an obsessive compulsive. He’s still my friend, and I think he might be emailing me under the name ‘Green Flower.’ (I’m not sure.) The emails are very ‘him,’ very sweet and unassuming. “How are you today sir? You are so handsome. I think about you all the time!! Let’s talk soon. Your Green Flower.’ It could be him, or it could be a mass murderer. I remember my obsessive compulsive friend would do the ‘shut the door’ thing? He would ask me ‘Did I test the doorknob twice?’ and I would say ‘Yes you did.’ And he would say ‘Can you tell me that again?’ And on it went. He used to call me regularly and ask: ‘Why do we die?’ It was very stressful. I told him I didn’t know, and that nobody knew, and that yes, death is very frightening. ‘Then how can you go on living?’ I couldn’t answer that one — except that you just, do. I am prone to anxiety. When I was a little boy I thought I hated God. (Have I mentioned that? Gee, after 47 blogposts I can’t remember whether I’ve told you or not, and I’m certainly not going to go back and check, as I might start cutting out stuff that was incriminating, and there would be nothing left). When I thought I hated God I went to my mother (it was the origin of our insoluble bond) and she assured me that I probably didn’t. It was probably a guilt thing, but just generally also an obsessive anxiety thing. And now I suppose I’m going to have to review this friggin’ movie; I mean I can’t get much farther into this and not even mention it. It’s by Ernst Lubitsch. I was making a valiant attempt to enjoy it -- it is frequently amusing -- but then I started to despise it. It’s middle class entertainment of the classiest order— there’s nice music, and Merle Oberon’s gowns are really the best I’ve seen so far. I spent one whole scene just trying to figure out where her breasts were in a dress that was cut down the middle. But that was a good thing, because the dialogue is well — hard to describe. I live for wit. And this is Donald Ogden Stewart (he wrote the film version of the Phillip Barry’s play The Philadelphia Story). But Donald Ogden Stewart is just a second rate Noel Coward. The difference is this. I can’t explain it all here — or else I would have to literally repeat my doctoral thesis (which was on Noel Coward.) But Coward’s work is not only fundamentally anarchic in terms of sexuality and gender, but more than quite occasionally profound. Donald Ogden Stewart is not. The plot is so silly. A Very Superficial Park Avenue Lady (Oberon) asks a psychiatrist to help relieve her of insomnia. Alan Mowbray — within the time that it takes to cross from one room to another in his office — concludes “well, there is nothing unusual in your childhood,” deciding that her problem is probably caused by her husband. Soon, the only interesting character in the movie appears (except for the beloved Eve Arden — in an early minor role, as secretary, of course). Burgess Meredith is Alexander Sebastian, Oberon’s paramour. He’s a neurotic concert pianist with stage fright. He picks up a vase and says “This vase insults me, and its ugly, let’s put it away” and puts it in a drawer. He’s a delicious satire of the ‘effeminate artist.’ I admit, I took it personally. No, it’s more than that. Satire is directed at something people feel needs to be satirised. And though I freely admit that Burgess Meredith is hilarious when he looks out a window and says “Phooey” — because this luscious parody of pretentious aesthetic revulsion just boils it all down to one silly expletive -- I don't think artists need to be parodied, especially right now. I spent the afternoon in a friggin’ Zoom meeting with self-hating artists, and I’m pissed. I suggested that we artists get together (I know, a bad word) and do live performances while maintaining ‘physical distancing’ (as I prefer to call it). Would anyone support this? Nine meek little artists raised their hands, terrified of censure. I was perplexed, saddened. All was revealed when someone ventured: “If we want to really perform in a safe way, we would not only have to social distance , but the audience would have to wear masks. And, what if — asking the audience to wear masks — is taking those masks away from front line health care workers, who really need them?” I honestly couldn’t answer that one. I wanted to yell at him but, I know that everybody already thinks I”m crazy because of the things I write — so it was incumbent on me to keep my mouth shut. And then I read this article by Charles McNulty — an asshole theatre critic for The Los Angeles Times — who says artists should stop trying to get grants, and devote their apparently considerable time and energy to raising money for the health care system. He quotes Robert Lowell’s wife: “Art just isn’t worth that much.” Well I’m afraid it is. Would you like me to prove it? Okay. Loneliness kills you. Sadness kills you. Some unhealthy people are unhealhy -- at least partially -- because their is no love and no beauty in their life. Unconvinced? Okay, try this. During World Wart Two Jacques Prevert and Joseph Kosma created ‘Les Enfants du Paradis,’ the most gorgeous film ever made. It was the Nazi occupation and they were called collaborators because they continued to work under the Nazi regime. But hey, I don’t care, I’m damn glad they did. Jean Louis Barrault smashing the flowers? (“If all couples loved each other, the world would shine like the sun!”) Life is about quality not quantity. Do you want to live, or do you want just to just be alive at any cost? I am not Burgess Meredith. I do not lean out windows and yell “Phooey” — I’m an artist because I believe that we are more than bodies. We are souls. Is that the kind of world you want, people walking around ‘healthy,’ and living until they’re 90, all of whom happen to be missing only one thing? A heart? Go ahead. I dare you to live in the safe, tedious, suffocating, world without art, that you are creating every day with the ‘new normal.’ Well, apparently, in the new normal, we also don’t do funerals. Gee, that makes sense. Why in heaven’s name would you need a funeral anyway, when you’re already dead?
