PLAGUE DIARY 20: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

Of Human Hearts (1938)
Beulah Bondi was nominated for an Academy Award for this movie. She is like her name; not very attractive, but full of warmth and stability. Sterling Holloway — a skinny, red-headed crookedly-smiling, comic actor, known for his odd, high voice, has a very small part. (That's not a pun. He went on to play Winnie-the-Pooh in the Disney cartoon. He never married, and Holloway said — and this is a quote— “because he felt lacking in nothing and did not wish to disturb his pattern of life.” But he also happened to be good friends with Spencer Tracey, who was —are you sitting down — gay. And Katherine Hepburn was a lesbian. Get ready, those are not the only bubbles I ‘m bursting in this crazy friggin’ blog!) Walter Huston plays the tyrannical father in Of Human Hearts, to perfection. And then there's James Stewart. He’s only 30 years old; and very believable as an overgrown boy. However, a real boy — Gene Reynolds (he later went on to produce the movie Mash) — plays James Stewart’s younger self for the first half of this movie. This was only Stewart’s 4th time cast in a leading role, and he bursts upon the screen.  Once Gene Reynolds is done being abused by his father, Stewart himself appears, and unleashes a fury that is so real that it made me cry. But today I’m having a bad day; I fell apart at the seams several times. I coughed too much this morning (Did I? or was it my imagination?). A friend called, clearly losing it somewhat, and we almost got into an argument. I keep almost getting into fights with my friends — they don’t want me to get angry about COVID-19 (obviously they haven’t read this blog).  So all this has nothing to do with being affected by father son flics. In fact I resented my father for never having existed — i.e., because he had so little effect on me. I frightened my father  because I was so much like my mother. And I think he was just bewildered that I was his son. The only time my father ever reminded me of Walter Huston in Of Human Hearts was when we were putting up the American flag on the 4th of July, and he suddenly went nuts. I let it touch the ground (Jesus, I didn’t know!) and he went ballistic: ‘Don’t you ever let The American Flag touch the ground! Never, never! Men fought and died for this flag!” I had never seen such anger, it came from nowhere. Walter Huston is a nightmare puritan father; he won’t let his son have pleasure. He and James Stewart are visiting the poor. As they sit down for grim meal of molasses and porridge, Walter Huston cheerily opines — ‘That’s mighty fine mush, Sister Clark’ and then — believe it or not — he eats a frog. Yes, there is a small frog in his porridge, and he explains: “It wasn’t easy, but I swallowed it. It’s my idea of courtesy.” And the old woman gives James Stewart her husband's old tattered coat (“he only wore it to church”) and James Stewart yells “I don’t want it! I won’t wear it!” And Walter Huston observes: “I’m sorry you mistake that cold frankness for courage.” But I wonder, is that what I’m doing here? I really don’t care. Huston wants his son to conquer his “rebellious spirit." Well I can’t conquer mine. Dr. Shingle, the drunken doctor, tells Gene Reynolds that “We can’t all do what’s right, or there wouldn’t be any work for your father.” It’s Foucault. Power structures feed on each other, perpetually. It’s the panopticon: surveillance, disobedience, and confession. So as we are being watched and reported on, someone else on TV is crying about the horrors of the fluid getting into your lungs, and about how death for all of us is just around the corner. But I’m finally beginning to feel tiny moments of fierce panic. Anthony Fauci said: “We might never get back to life pre-Corona virus.” And my friend phoned me and said: “I’m hearing this whole thing may last for three years.”  The climactic scene in Of Human Hearts? John Carradine as President Lincoln invites James Stewart into his office to get, Stewart thinks, a medal. Instead Carradine reveals he has received a letter from Beulah Bondi asking whether not her son is dead. Carradine lectures Stewart about what a horrible son he is. Well unlike James Stewart, I refuse to confront my own selfishness. Instead I’ll tell you three irrelevant stories (hold onto your hats, fellas!). My father was involved in a somewhat similar incident in World War II, with President Truman. He was 17 years old in 1945, and stationed in Tinian, building airfields with a tractor. One day he was looking at a Life magazine in the mess (is that what they call it?) and he saw a picture of his mother pinning a poppy on President Truman (my father’s mother was quite the impressive lady). My father wanted to keep the picture, so he ripped it out. When he was chewed out by the commanding officer, he told him “It’s a photo of my mother” but the officer didn’t believe him. So my father — being the privileged young white guy he was, wrote my grandmother and told her what happened. And sure enough, she wrote President Truman, and the order came down, and the officer apologised to my father. And the second irrelevant story is this. My connection with John Carradine is that my mother had emotional sex with his son David Carradine (which is somewhat similar to what she did with me for most of my life). Before she died, she met David Carradine in a bar (it was close to the end of his life too — soon after meeting her, he strangled himself accidentally while masturbating — I’m not saying it had anything to do with my mother, but if you knew my mother you might think it did). Anyway, my mother and David Carradine used to go out drinking together, and they got pretty rowdy, and one night he hit her. My mother, who was quite excited about her relationship with David Carradine, was also kind of proud of the whole thing. She was like me; such a mess she gave preachers a reason to preach. And here is the final irrelevant anecdote. (Again, are you sitting down?) My father placed the 'fat boy’ under the airplane that dropped the bomb on Nagasaki.  He told my sister and I this story. I don’t know why. Did he want us to forgive him? I think he told us because it was a good story. He wanted to entertain us. So what are you supposed to do with that little tidbit of information? I could tell you that it’s not true. But, unfortunately, it is true. And I’m telling you now because I want you to know how it feels. I’m sick and tired of turning on the TV and hearing, or having my friends tell me quite gleefully, another bit of horrible news. Horrific news. People choking on their own lung fluids and not able to breathe. Why are you telling me this? Is it because you care about me? Or is it because it’s such a damn friggin’ good story?