Now, she is

concerned. Joan Crawford asks: “What’s wrong with me, doctor? Why do I see things that couldn’t be?’ The doctor — who is beyond considerate  and understanding — especially to those who are not as wise as he — explains it all, calmly, careful not to alarm her — “Insanity is not a word we like to use: this is the inability to distinguish between what is real and what isn’t.” Ahh, of course. Alas, Joan attempts to ignore her burgeoning mental illness, but of course it will not go away. Soon she is lying on her satin bed curled in a foetal position beside the giant shiny headboard, moaning. Her husband, the perpetually elderly Raymond Massey thinks she should return to the doctor. Joan races around the room, pressing her hand to her forehead, doing that wild-eyed-thing that someone told her was acting: “You think there’s something wrong with my mind, don’t you? You’re trying to put me away, aren’t you?” Soon after, she shoots Van Heflin. It’s not clear if it’s because he’s not in love with her, or because he insists on being a concert pianist and an engineer (‘I’m much nicer than a girder and also more interesting” she says to him) or because she is jealous of Geraldine Brooks (a young actress who is much prettier than her) or because Van Heflin is simply a far better actor than she is — in fact the juxtaposition of his performance against hers may have cost her The Oscar. At any rate, she plugs him. Inevitably, she is lying in a hospital bed, comatose, drugged, staring at the ceiling. An errant gay makeup man has sprayed her with grey paint — her hair, her skin, even her eyes — she looks like the 'Tin Woodsman' in The Wizard of Oz. The doctor is once again brilliant and beyond compassionate --we marvel at his wisdom as he explains the complex machinations of science to the uninformed yet receptive Raymond Massey: “A clear case of psychosis, completely unbalanced, insane if you insist on using that term. Such a person is possessed with devils.” Ah. What is valuable about this ‘diagnosis’ of course, is that it is so terribly ‘scientific,’ don’t you see? But we have not yet reached the eminent physician’s bone chilling conclusion — the forecast of what lies ahead for Joan Crawford — who lies stiff as grey telephone pole on a hospital gurney. The doctor smiles, gently, his right hand gently caressing the corner of his desk: "It is only through greater pain — and suffering beyond belief — that she will get well again.” A few seconds later the doctor is walking alone through a hospital hallway, the walls naked, the building apparently empty -- obviously on his way to deliver another spine-tingling epitaph for some half-dead crazy person.  This kind doctor reminds me of Dr. Fauci. Why, if God hadn't created Dr. Fauci, then we would have invented him. Yes, we have always known — since 1947 when Possessed was released — that the only way to be cured is through ‘suffering beyond belief.’ And this is our journey now, as we always knew it was our lot; it makes no sense to protest that the cure is more painful than the disease. Why of course it is. No cure worth its salt is easy. When they told us this was a pandemic, little did we know this was, in effect, a cancer diagnosis, the subtext being that we would be asked to endure suffering beyond belief — not so much because chemotherapy always works (in fact it often doesn’t, and the patient dies anyway) but because if we refuse to endure endless pain, then we refuse to be released. If it seems biblical, it is. We all know —in our heart of heats —  that COVID-19 goes deeper than a cough, and the agony of a ventilator, deeper even, than death. There is something about this disease, about all disease in fact that transcends science.  Dr Harvey Willard queries his intern, ruefully: “How many does this make?” And the Intern replies — “Twenty today: 1 manic, 3 seniles, 6 alcoholics, and 10 schizos.” We can forgive the intern for his somewhat insensitive language -- he is, after all, what we would today call a ‘front-line essential worker,' undoubtedly under enormous stress. Dr. Willard caresses his requisite doctoral goatee thoughtfully, and sagely opines: “Going up all the time. This civilization of ours is a worse disease than heart trouble or tuberculosis, and we can't escape it.” We know it. Of course our civilisation was diseased -- there was something wrong with us -- and it all had to come to a stop. It's very right, somehow.  I have a friend who thought she was losingher mind, her hand was always trembling, moving towards her temple. She said: ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me, the stasis of this lockdown, this inaction, this uncertainty, this endless day after day of nothing.’ I assured her, no, we are not losing our minds. That’s silly. We are not Joan Crawford in some silly old movie trying her best to win an Oscar for an unremitting piece of crap called Possessed — no, no, we are not all going finger-to-the-temple insane. Calm down. I urge you all to calm down. This was the way it was meant to be; God knows why, and I mean that literally, Only God knows. (God and -- of course -- Dr. Fauci). Whatever is our fate, we must accept it, because — well that's the problem! Why, in heaven's name, are you asking why? We cannot understand, it is beyond us. Surrender. And in the surrender you will find a kind of release. Go back to Possessed, you’ll see. It’s what happens when Joan Crawford melts into Van Heflin’s arms. He’s not even attractive -- never was --  he's a merely witty playboy who smokes and cares nothing about her, but still she gazes out at the sea, unable to stop loving him. She takes a boat to his house and hurls herself around the room, hoping this will somehow make him love her. We are all Joan Crawford in Possessed, and our folly is only not giving in. The doctors know. We are not mad, we are merely human. And if we wish too ardently to end this lockdown, then our soul is certainly inhabited by devils. I here and now commit myself to only living here, in these blogs. Life has become fantasy, and fantasy has become life. I Life, as we knew it, was the disease. And this is the cure.