Torrid Zone (1940)
“Trouble with you dames is you’re always building castles and trying to move into them.” It’s the only line in this film worth remembering; it’s the only thing of interest in this dreary adventure comedy. I did not need this film on this night. I’ve already talked about how long Cagney’s eyelashes are; I did kind of discover Helen Vinson, but she is sadly underused here — she’s very good — a stage actress and elegant. But nothing can save this movie. The last line, before Cagney kisses Ann Sheridan is — "You and your 14 carat oomph!” which seems like nonsense. Well, IMDB says Sheridan used to be called the ‘oomph’ girl, so — this film is purely a vehicle; it’s about the stars, not the characters or the situation -- which it’s impossible to take seriously anyway. And on top of that it’s not the least bit funny, even though it’s listed as one of the Top 100 Funniest American Movies ever. I honestly thought this was going to be over. I had deluded myself into thinking that next week things would be opening again. I haven’t talked about it here because, well -- I don’t tell you everything! But that hope pretty much kept me alive, and now of course it’s not true. I live in the city, and cities are ‘hardest hit’ -- whatever that means, in this non-existent tragedy. Yes when it’s been almost three months of nothing, and of me trying to make something out of that, and now I get caught with egg on my face, telling everyone I’m going to be okay — but the idea that things might get back to normal (not the ‘new normal') was a castle I was building that, alas, I will not be able to move into any day soon. That leaves us. You and me. I was going to leave you. I had sort of left you, in my head, that is -- I was preparing to go. Now I can’t leave, and I'm as married to this blog as I was to my life -- when I had one. A friend of mine — and she is a person of colour (and that does count in this context) was bullied at the dollar store today, for standing in the wrong line, for standing in the exit line when she wanted to enter, or something. The female security guard went out of her mind with rage, following her, yelling -- “Who do you think you are? You think you don't have to follow the rules like other people?” And -- “Don’t ever come back here again.” My friend is a shit-kicker, like me, and she doesn’t like authority figures. But right now life is one big authority figure, and then -- everyone’s inscrutable, infuriating compliance, and — but I’ve said all this before. Aren’t you tired of it all? I am. There are two photos of my mother’s father on my desk. I never met him. He was blonde and had big ears. He was — as far as I know - a farmer in Maine. One of the photos is just his head, and his luscious eyes stare at me, and they are my mother’s eyes. The other photo is fascinating, Perhaps it’s a high school photo? He is wearing a — what is it? — basketball uniform? He is holding what appears to be basketball. It has the numbers 24 and 25 on it. He is wearing shorts, and has completely hairless arms and legs. This is interesting because I have completely hairless arms and legs -- and my father was somewhat apelike. So I got that from my grandfather. His legs are locked together, and he wears striped socks, with two garter-like rings circling the top of his knees. He’s also wearing a tank top with some sort of insignia. He doesn’t look very happy. But what is interesting is his posture. He appears to be displaying his body, — especially his muscled stomach beneath his shirt — in a relaxed way. He seems uncomfortable with the basketball, but comfortable with his body. I have no idea, of course. All I know about him was that he made my grandmother pregnant out of wedlock, and then she fled to Nova Scotia to have the baby. Later, back in Maine, he died ‘in a barn fire.’ The detail I always remember though is one my grandmother told me: he used to play the violin. That explains it all. Or more accurately, it's set me weaving the fantasy of his suicide. He became Allan Grey— the young man who shoots himself in A Streetcar Named Desire. My grandmother was a schoolteacher and quite pretty, and a romantic — she was married three times. My theory is that my grandfather was a homosexual. My grandmother seemed to like homosexuals. That is, she seemed to like me. It’s a story, it’s just a story that I made up, and nothing could be more inconsequential than that. On the back of the photo it just says his name: Holman. Whole man. Hole man. His sisters once told me I reminded them of him. When I was 12, I went to stay with one of them, my Aunt Dot (and her husband my Uncle Fremont) in Maine. Aunt Dot was what they used to call 'crippled.' They lived on a farm, by a ‘pond’ (that means lake, in Maine). There was a teenage boy — a distant relative of mine, also staying there. My Uncle Fremont taught me how to shoot an ‘elephant gun.’ I can’t remember if I shot it, but I do remember him saying “the kick on that thing will throw you across the street.” That night I slept in the same room (maybe the same bed!) as my young relative. He told me ghost stories; I was absolutely terrified. I felt I was in his power. But none of those stories was as scary as this one now — the ghost story we are living in. In my favourite plays and movies the ghosts are chatty, witty tourists dropping by, on vacation from a happy cloud. Perhaps-- in real life -- ghosts are the sad shadows of what we used to be. The time when we used to not be afraid to leave the house -- or hug, the time when we used to laugh in the face of authority, the time when we didn’t really care if other people thought we were good people, or not. I’m no sure of what to make of these pale figures who hurry past me on the street. They are running -- to what? Their own homes? And they are afraid, so very afraid.
