Yet another Muslim/American

epic. Central to these misogynistic films of the 40s and 50s is the concept of the ‘femme fatale,’ a notion that yields a shitload of narrative fun, and is sexy as hell -- but horrible for women. Just as some Muslims believe that the sight of a woman’s long hair or naked ankle has the capacity to inflame a man beyond rape — and she therefore needs to be fully covered from head to toe — the American film noir puts the blame on women. Apparently without them, men would be as innocent as lambs. Lang’s Human Desire (apparently he hated the title, he said ‘what other desire is there?') is quite watchable due to everybody involved except Glenn Ford (who registers as nothing but a sweet, honest and kind man, and one can only take a certain amount of that.) Marlon Brando rejected the Ford role apparently, dismissing the flic as a garbage -- and I wish I could say it was. In other words, I wish that men were only attracted to nice women and women were only attracted to nice men, or I imagine that I wish it but a) that is sadly not the case, and it probably never will be, and, b) is that even desirable? When Glenn Ford returns from war his landlord’s daughter (Kathleen Case)  bounces in, her gigantic breasts fighting obscenely to release themselves from her too-tight sweater. She, however is clearly meant to be an ‘innocent’ girl -- unlike Gloria Grahame -- who wears hoop earrings, smokes like a fiend, and has heavily-lidded, come-hither eyes. This is the kind of part Gloria Grahame was born to play, and she manages to make us sympathize with a woman who asks her lover to kill her husband; she is somehow not arch -- or really evil -- at all. Grahame rescues the film from camp, but even she can't stop that train when Kathleen Case says, innocently: “I don’t know much about love that makes people hurt one another”…and “I do know there are other kinds of love.” Yes I suppose there is such a thing as loving a very boring woman with humungous breasts who likes wearing sweaters two sizes too small, but who cares about that, when you’ve got Gloria Grahame? First of all, come on, are we supposed to believe that there’s any kind of love worth its salt that doesn’t hurt you? Honestly? I didn’t know what hurt was until I came out of the closet. The lovely Ukraiinian girl I was practically engaged to at 27 could never have 'hurt' me (though I know I hurt her a lot, by just coming out, and I do regret that— but it wasn’t my fault). It was only when I fell for Glenn Cassie (yes two ’n’s’ -- like Glenn  Ford) the first boy I ever loved, that I fully understood the heartache of popular songs. Most of all, though, I was suddenly suddenly jealous if any man looked at him or talked to him. He was a ‘bad boy’ if only for the sultry curl of his sensuous lips, or perhaps because he did take ‘a little’ heroin when he was staying in London (U.K.) -- which worried me a lot, so much so that he sent me photos of his bare arms saying ‘look -- no scars!’ (I still have those photos) insisting that he was not addicted. Then there was Shaun O’Mara who was bad boy defined, his middle name was Trouble. He had been a hooker and an 'exotic dancer,' was outrageously handsome, liked to order me around in bed; I was in heaven. He used to tell me that I didn’t need to go into work, which was so liberating, and freeing -- for me (a workaholic). Then he started throwing some other guy in my face (we were open, but we weren’t supposed to fall in love with anyone else). So I had to dump him, and what followed was months of mourning.  I must mention Rodney (can’t remember his last name) who was a stripper at Remingtons and had a twelve inch penis which he liked to pull out at parties. He was missing cartilage in his nose due to cocaine use, and used to disappear now and then -- which was mystifying until I realised he was doing short stints in prison. I broke up with him after he decided 'Dark Horse' by Amanda Marshall  was 'our song.' (The idea of us 'having a song' and it being that was truly terrifying.) He then wrecked my apartment. So there was lots of hurt back then and then came my present lover (it’s only been 23 years, we’re still working it out).  I wanted to murder him last week -- but then we made up. And yes he hurts me deeply all the time. That’s what it’s about, baby. If you want an easy ride, get a financial partner (i.e. a husband) not a lover. Real love means you care, but most of all it means triggering all the family issues that are the basis of all human pain. You’re not going to obsess over anyone unless they ignite some primal, incestual (yes,  I said that) memory. My present boyfriend is my mother, although he’s not, (or my therapist tells me he’s not) but I still managed to somehow acquire a partner who is so bizarrely controlling that he would like to measure my life in coffee spoons. Right now I’m actually feeling guilty because I haven’t looked up the price of a new refrigerator at The Brick (I promised him I would do that). Listen to me: for no one else would I compare prices on refrigerators. (Will they install it?  Does it have a bottom freezer and an ice maker? Then just ship it over now, money's no object!) So it’s all very nice for Marlon Brando to dismiss Human Desire as garbage, and for everyone to go around thinking that all anyone has to do is marry the sensible girl in the bulging sweater (do they actually exist?). But all that's highly unlikely -- because if you are human and you have desire, it’s partially because you'd  rather life didn’t bore you to death. I’ve been obsessing about Carol Matthau (nee Marcus) lately because she was the model for Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's. My friend told me this joke about the Holocaust.  I know you’re not supposed to tell such jokes, but it's from Walter and Carol Matthau— and they were both Jewish -- so it's allowed okay?  Anyway apparently when Walter and Carol were in Poland they were scheduled to do a a tour of a concentration camp but had a huge argument the night before. And Carol yelled at Walter tearfully: “There you go, now you’ve ruined Auschwitz for me!" Yes -- unsettling to say the least -- but truly funny in a very dark way; undoubtedly the real Holly Golightly knew that if he's not hurting you quite seriously -- at least now and then, well -- the relationship's not worth the trouble.