Quality Street (1937)
I quite lost the thread of the plot, and at a certain point I just wasn’t listening. The trick for me was figuring out what made the original play by J.M. Barrie so popular in it’s heyday in 1902 (before he wrote Peter Pan). Quality Street is, I discovered, more than treacle, though a brand of cookies was named after it. The conceit is this: if you see the man you are in love with ten years after you first met him, and he no longer finds you attractive, then just pretend to be someone else — someone who is much younger and prettier. But then, what if he is actually in love with the older, much less charming woman who is the real you? The problem with this movie is that Katherine Hepburn never thinks that her lover (Franchot Tone) would recognise that she is both Phoebe Throssel and Phoebe's cousin Libby. That's kinda hard to swallow. And why — if he doesn’t love the older you — why not just throw on a pretty bonnet and be the younger you, only remain yourself? What is confounding is why good old-fashioned logic didn’t triumph over the public’s determination to do some wishful thinking. It's because we want to believe the ugly girl is more attractive than the beautiful one. All the ugly girls want that. But is there really such a thing as an ugly girl? I ought to know, I was one. My transformation from plain to gorgeous happened a few years after I came out of the closet. It was a mirror moment. I often used to look at myself in the mirror naked (doesn’t everyone?) But for a long time whenever I looked at myself all I saw was a fat man. It was very depressing, I wanted to give up and almost did. But the looking at myself in the mirror every night was a kind of rigour which proved fruitful: for after many depressing nights, I looked at myself naked in the mirror and suddenly I saw a very tall, handsome, attractive, not-fat man. It was a startling revelation and it changed my life. I realised the logical impossibility, of course, of having lost so much weight in a day. But the mirror could not lie. I was undoubtedly suddenly attractive. How did this happen? No seriously. I mean it. I was suddenly desirable to myself (which was a magical revelation). And then I came to fully understand that of course it was the same man in the mirror on two successive days: I simply was looking at him differently! Then I kept looking at myself naked, again and again, and it became perfectly clear to me that I was actually the one who could decide whether I was attractive or not. To suddenly have that kind of power is mind-boggling. For a few years years after that I landed some very cute boyfriends, because I was able to persuade others just as I was able to persuade myself. This really is the answer to everything, and I should probably put it on a website and make millions as a life coach. Or for once in my life, maybe, write a book that might sell a few copies? Of course it’s not quite as easy as all that, because, truth be told, I’m not certain what precipitated the change. What was the origin of this realization? I guess it was just kind of like, well --seeing God, in a way. Quality Street doesn't appeal to women who are ugly -- because no woman is ugly -- the appeal is for women who think they are ugly. I hope I've made that clear by now in all these discussions of beauty. (Haven’t you been listening? Or taking notes?). Beauty is not skin deep, it is the product of a wilful, Vulcan, mind meld, of a belief system that is frantically, passionately, and inspiringly out of control. Have you not looked closely at some of the worlds most beautiful women? Barbra Streisand, for instance. She’s cross-eyed and her nose is monstrous. I mean sure she’s got big boobs — and she’s so talented it’s crazy — but look at that kisser! So it is obvious that somewhere, deep down. Barbra Streisand is convinced that she is attractive, or else she couldn’t pull it off. Because she is undoubtedly beautiful. I know a couple of women like that who, if you examine them technically are kinda funny looking, but they are nevertheless, considered great beauties. Maria Callas is kind of like that. In some photos she’s got the big nose disease, but you know she's kind of ordering you to find her sexy. I have met many men like that too (and I’m so glad to have made that discovery at this late age!). I mean the number of clueless and unsexy, yet incredibly beautiful, young men I have tumbled into bed with only to have a lousy friggin' time. Yes, I’m serious. You can bully people into finding you attractive, you can simply order them to desire you. It doesn’t work though, unless you really believe you are attractive — if you don’t believe it then it doesn't work. And yes, Katherine Hepburn is Katherine Hepburn, but she is really skinny, and has no discernible tits at all, really, and Tracy’s famous line (from Pat and Mike): “Not much meat on her, but what's there is cherce” sounds to me a bit like a press agent's way of dealing with the Katherine Hepburn skinny problem. But we all know that Katherine Hepburn, tits or no tits, knew she was gorgeous -- or probably — and more significantly — didn’t care one way or the other. And that is a kind of belief. I know it sounds like I’m saying it all boils down to (yawn) positive thinking — and it does in a way. But hopefully it should be a relief now to discover that you, too, can be beautiful (in case you hadn’t thought of it before!). Actually you can be anything you want to be. Demented people believe they are The King of Persia — and some of them are completely happy until some doctor or other dedicates themselves to convincing them of the truth. I do not recommend the truth, because generally speaking, it’s not much fun. For instance I imagined that I was inspired tonite, and that I would be capable of writing something worthwhile, when in actuality I am feeling the world creeping in (I’m feeling a little post COVID-19) and I actually don't want it to, because that’s interrupting my relationship with the blank page; and me and it were getting along fine, thankyou. But I’ll tell you one thing I did find out writing this blog. The words created this; not me. That’s something I truly believe. When the words start writing all I have to do is just let them do their thing. I don’t even have to think. The words think. Because words have thoughts. Thoughts don’t have words -- it’s the other way around, actually. (Just a thought.)
