PLAGUE DIARY 28: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

Dark Victory (1939)
It’s fantastical, impossible. The maid pulls the curtains— but Judith’s blind, and almost dead. It’s a parable, it’s a tragedy; tragedies are made to teach us how to die. And no one can do it as beautifully as Bette Davis; the angels are singing, she has puppy dog eyes and voluminous feathery hair, and she drapes herself artfully over the bed and then her big, pitiful, unmatchable peepers slowly close. The lights dim. It’s easy to make fun; she has ‘Glioma.’  “How will it come?" "Quietly peacefully. God’s last small mercy.” “Will she have no warning?” “There may be a moment towards the end…a dimming of vision…then in a few hours perhaps three or four…” According to Wikipedia, the actual final stages of glioma blastema (which is a cancer), involve pain, nausea, constipation, delirium, and dyspnea (‘air hunger’ or shortness of breath.) George Brent — the  doctor who is also in love with Bette Davis — says: ‘She must not know.” But Bette Davis figures it out just before having lunch with him. She peers over the menu employing the tone of stinging, arch, sarcasm that made her famous: “I think I’ll have an order of prognosis negative!” Then she bullies him away so she can get drunk with Ronald Reagan (yes Ronald Reagan is in this movie), and ends up singing  — along with the lounge act — her favourite song: ‘Give Me Time.’’ I”m not kidding. This is unabashed melodrama, the purpose is to squeeze every bathetic tear from every sad pore in in your rapidly aging, abject body. But George Brent tells her: “We live our lives so we can meet death — whenever it comes — beautifully and finely.” You might be moved to clap, or to call it claptrap. Or as Oscar Wilde says: “The good ended happily and the bad unhappily, that’s what fiction means.” Is it inappropriate for me to make a plea for this particular brand of some would say, garbage? To praise a fiction, in all its glory, even when we know it’s fiction and are ever so glad it is? On the one hand this movie isn’t meant just to while away the hour; on the other hand it’s NOT Hamlet or Oedipus Rex, is it? It’s Judith Traherne, a young selfish socialite whose life is filled with “horses, dogs, shooting, yachting, travel, parties, gossip.” You may not be surprised to hear that her life is much like mine. Indeed, I am Judith Traherne, especially in those moments of tragic irony, when she thinks she is going to live but we all know she is going to die. She’s living her life carelessly, joyfully and selfishly, all the while “with that thing growing behind her” — that will soon rip out her soul by the roots. For at least six months thirty years ago, I was plagued with daily anxiety attacks. I thought I was going to die all the time. I remember one friend’s discomfiting lecture: “Booze, poppers, you won’t live long, do you think you’ll Iive to a ripe old age? Get with the program!” I almost have survived to that ripe old age. But I still live like Judith Traherne in her tragic irony phase — always with the knowledge that I may die tomorrow. And the doctors on TV have been saying, over and over: ‘When they get on the respirators, it’s pretty much done.' Can you believe that? Just imagine sitting at home watching CNN and every day some smug doctor reminds you that those much vaunted respirators — the ones which Governor Cuomo just must have — well if you get on one,  you'll die soon after. How very Judith Traherne: “I’m sorry we recommend you go on a respirator“ “No, no not the respirator please - anything but that!” Camp is our special weapon, it’s the gay M-15, and we can blast away all of your humourless, hypocritical, heterosexual moralism that threatens to kill us every day — especially during COVID-19. Do you know about the drag queens that invade Fire island? I did it once with a coked up friend. My sister made us matching Scarlett O’Hara costumes. We were both very large somewhat hairy guys, and my friend (sorry, we had a fight, I can’t remember his name) and I, drove down to New York City (he was a masseur and assured me ‘I only bring off the sexy clients’). And he kept saying: ‘I can guarantee there won't be any other identical six-foot drag queens on that boat!’ And for sure, there weren't. And a lot of cute gay men fawned over us when we got there, because, sure enough, we were the only giant, twin Scarlet O’Hara’s there. But because (blank— what was his name?) was a coke addict the most memorable moment was when we got lost on our way and he started shrieking ‘We'll be killed by black thugs” And I was like — ‘Are you REALLY Scarlett O’Hara, or what?’ The drag queens invade fire island every year (it’s a tradition) but at the height of the AIDS epidemic the boys were visited by a very special gaggle of guy/gals, dressed in full, old-lady, Italian, mourning drag. Were they making fun of AIDS? On the contrary: they were saying ‘I have the right to mourn too, and I will be mourning the rest of my life for my man, he means more to me than your man ever meant to you  — you sanctimonious, grim, old, Italian lady, even if -- as I say this -- I’m getting blown by someone in backroom!’ Camp is dead serious — and this movie is dead serious — because we laugh. Camp is defiance against death, pain and the whole damn thing. In Love's Labour's Lost Rosalind tells Byron that she can only marry him if he will spend a year in hospitals making dying people laugh. That is for all of you who think we should take  COVID-19 seriously. Since when should we take death seriously? Elyot in Private Lives says: "it’s all a laughable trick done with lights and mirrors." And to make fun of Judith Tranherne’s desperate denial, her impossible symptoms and the uncanny synchronicity of peparing to die in her pretty Vermont garden on a sunny spring day, just before she says goodbye to her loyal dogs ,and her maid — before collapsing so gracefully on that grand bed (again, why does the maid pull those curtains?…) There shall be no respect, no silence, no pious righteousness for Judith Traherne. And absolutely no praise and no blame. For this is dying. And the only thing to do is laugh.

PLAGUE DIARY 27: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

Violence (1947)
What if — all of a sudden — your whole life changed? What if you didn’t know what was happening to you? What if you didn’t know who you were, or what you were doing? What if you felt lost, alone, and had nowhere to turn? No, it’s not Canada in April, 2020, it’s Nancy Coleman’s dilemma in Violence. She’s a journalist who infiltrates a labour organization run by a fascist demagogue. Sheldon Leonard (who played thugs on TV for 20 years until he became a TV producer) is the henchman, just out of Sing Sing. Nancy Coleman is about to spill the dirt, when she’s in a car accident and gets amnesia. Suddenly she starts to believe the demagogue’s rhetoric, and becomes a fascist herself. Fortunately, she’s beaten up by Sheldon Leonard, and her memory comes back, and she cracks open all the corruption with Michael O’Shea. THE END. Coleman is a graceful, subtle actress; she and Michael O’Shea look a little like Tracy and Hepburn, if you close your eyes and squint. If only they had the dialogue: but the film is written by the same guy who wrote Macao. Not sure why this movie is so forgotten, because Coleman’s terror at her inscrutable memory loss is quite horrifying, even though the director told her to put hand to her head too much, and the music is pumped up beyond endurement at every melodramatic moment. Well, it almost seemed for a minute this was going to be just a regular good old-fashioned movie review. But Doug Ford just told us that our imprisonment is going to last another month — until May 12. I didn’t take it well, I was depressed all day, and it was snowing, and the streets were empty -- except for all those crazy people hurrying, turning away from you, and some of them, it appears, running for their lives. Then I began to think about control. What is it, and what happens when you lose it? I think all of us are control freaks in a way. But did you know that 50% of the population in Canada says they are quite happy to be locked up? (All for a good cause, of course!) But whether or not you agree that a disease which is likely to kill 1% of the population (because that’s what it’s looking like now) is worth halting your life for — who the hell says you have to be happy about it? Well I’m part of the 50% that minds very much being controlled. Writing is my control -- because our work is control for each of us -- and right now we we have no work — to work out our feelings of losing control. Just think about Nancy Coleman for a minute; think about not knowing who you are. Think about having Sheldon Leonard with that growly, grimy Bronx accent coming at you with a broken wine glass poised to mess up your face. So why isn’t anyone being violent right now, in Canada? (This is not a call for violence, this is merely a question.) When is the violence that is the result of all this social distancing, isolation, poverty, loneliness, drug addiction, wife-beating and complete and utter lack of control of your life as well as a general lack of an outlet for anything that makes us human —  when is it going to happen? I know it will, sometime. Because you can’t just take away everyone’s control away for an indefinite period of time and expect NOBODY to snap. We were talking about suicide today, me and my friends, and the consensus seemed to be that insulin was the best. The thing about suicide, you see, is it gives you a feeling of control. (Again, I’m not defending it, I’m just stating a fact.) I’ve never been a violent person. Except I used to be known for my fits. I had them mostly at women. I threw a knife at my girlfriend once (oh, I already told you that). What usually sends me into a fury is women who guilt me out. (Yes they all become my mother.) It’s very boring. I remember once when a writer who shall remain nameless, (Nadia Ross) had her play rejected by the theatre that I was the artistic director of -- but I won’t mention the name again -- (Buddies in Bad Times Theatre). I was not the person who rejected her play — someone else did — but she was afraid of him, because he was a straight male and scary, so she decided to yell at me “YOU’RE A FUCKING MISOGYNIST! YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF FUCKING MISOGYNISTS!!!!! (Her words, not mine). Do you know what I used to do when women tried to guilt me out? I would throw a bigger tantrum than they could ever imagine. And so I cried. I scared the shit out of her, I think, because I can cry at the drop of a hat, I warn you. I cried recently to get my toenails clipped. It’s really gross but I’m old, and my feet are screwed up, and I have to get my toenails clipped professionally, and I was so friggin’ worried that I would have to live with nails that were out of control because podiatrists or chiropodists (what’s the friggin’ difference?) suddenly were not an essential service (not in Ontario, but they are an essential service in Nova Scotia. Why?). So I phoned this one lousy chiropodist. (I can’t tell you the name.) (University Foot and Orthotic Clinic.) I don’t like them because they charge 80$ if you can believe it. And the person who does my nails is the owner's daughter, and she’s very pretty and cheery, but she always does a lousy job. (In this way, she reminds me of Justin Trudeau.) But I had to get those nails cut, or I literally would not be able to walk. (Please don’t ask me why I need to have my toenails clipped professionally, just friggin’ accept it will you? My toenails are TOO GROSS TO DISCUSS.) So I phone their office and I made the very polite meek request that my nail cutting was an essential service, and I really needed it -- and then I started to cry. Yeah. I cried. I told you, I’m so good at crying. It worked on Nadia Ross, and on my lousy cheery Chiropodist -- and it would probably work on you. That’s my specialty, making people believe what’s not true. Like this could not be true. And yet you’re believing it right? These blogs could be filled with lies, and maybe they are. But you don’t know for sure one way or the other do you? And it gives me a feeling of control — to control you in that way. But actually no, it’s more about controlling reality — not you — I have no control over the reality which is my life — especially now — so these blogs offer me the possibility of creating another world, a fictional world, rearranging things into something that, for the space of this blog anyway, are real. In fact I’m going to make a pact with you right now. Let’s make a deal. That you believe everything I tell you about my personal life in this blog. What I say here is always the truth. No, I’ll tell you what: it's truer than truth. You must believe me. You have to believe me. It’s all I’ve got. It's either that or the insulin.

PLAGUE DIARY 26: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

 Macao (1954)
“You’re all wet.” “You better start getting used to me right out of the shower.” Macao is strangely lifeless. Wisecracks galore; Jane Russell says “Sometimes I just get so tired of remembering to keep my guard up” and then you realise why they always portrayed her as so tough — because if you looked like her and wore dresses like that in 1954 you’d have to be. It’s all very sad. Gloria Grahame has a very small part; and she’s such a wonderful actress. Her husband Nicholas Ray was called in to fix the final fight scene between Robert Mitchum and Brad Dexter. He didn’t. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Oh there’s Gimpy. Gimpy was the only character I identified with (I might be related to him, apparently the actor was a direct descendent of Robert. E. Lee). He’s a little guy, a piano player with a club foot, and when he gets introduced to Jane Russell as ‘Gimpy,” Russell asks “What’s your real name?” and he looks at her blankly, and says simply: “Gimpy.’ It’s the second best line in the film. The best is when Robert Mitchum with the sleepy eyes that you just want to fall into, is reclining in a sampan with Jane Russell’s tits (sorry, I meant to say Jane Russell). Trying to tell his fortune by reading his hand, she says: “I see that you’re lonely, and you’re worried about money, and there’s something you regret very much, and you’ve been looking for something for a long long time.” And when he asks her how she knows that, she says “Everybody’s lonely, and worried, and sorry, and everybody’s looking for something.” I can’t go on with this anymore. It’s one of those nights when — it’s been almost a month, and it’s April 13th; the same day everything changed. I was out at a gay bar on the 13th, having a good time, and people were beginning to say very scary things about COVID-19, and then — we all remember it — two days later everything just stopped. It’s a little bit like a death sentence; like going to the doctor and being told you have two months to live. I mean it happened so suddenly, and all you can think of is how innocent you were before. It’s good preparation I guess for the loneliness that they keep telling you awaits you when you get COVID-19. Apparently it’s like AIDS used to be — apparently no one will want to touch you — except for the odd brave heroic nurse (will she be like all those nurses in those AIDS movies, kinda funny lookin’ with a sense of humour? The last human being who will talk to you?). But as one of my friends said, it doesn’t really matter, because we all die alone. But we all live alone when it comes down to it. One of the things that happens in this kind of isolation is that no one is ever enough; everyone seems inadequate, and the things that used to bring you joy about the people that you see every day all the time are no longer joyful, and the people that you love, well,  you just want to get away from them. Donald Trump was very angry today  — like out of control angry — and I’m afraid that I identified with him more than I do than the falsely unsmiling Doug Ford, or the falsely smiling Justin Trudeau, or Canada’s Chief Public Health Officer Dr. Theresa Tam who is constitutionally somewhere in between. I don’t regret anything; but yes I am sad about it. The whole thing that happened with me at Buddies. In case you don’t know I recently had to separate myself from the theatre I founded so many years ago because I wrote a poem and the present artistic director didn’t like it, add she tried to destroy me, and so I just had to get out. That was a lot like social distancing, come to think of it, even though I’ve always been ‘controversial,’ there I was suddenly and thoroughly abandoned by a lot of people who I thought were my friends. But who am I kidding? I’ve been social distancing since I was 12 years old and first started saying things that other people didn’t like. When we were first struggling to get 12 Alexander Street as a home for Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, we were competing with some weird ‘dance consortium — I think that’s what they called themselves. The head of the ‘consortium,’ Christopher Wooten hated me, as only, it appears, I can be hated, stating: "Sky Gilbert is dangerous because he doesn’t have anything to lose.” I thought it was an ingenious compendium of insult and praise. But he was right. All I have is this. And even if they censor me I’ll just write it for myself. Because nobody’s going to read this anyway, and if they do, they’ll just say that I’m self-indulgent and privileged, which I am, and who cares, and this is ANOTHER BLOG THAT NOBODY READS. If I were you, I would stop reading this now. It only gets messier. What’s missing right now in our lives is what separates people from machines. We have all the machines we want — and that’s why they keep asking “What are you complaining about?” But a computer is never actually going to surprise you. What about porn, or the 'dark web,' or murder videos, whatever — sure, but it’s not spontaneous in the same way. It’s not like having sex with two guys in a dark room who say 'Do you like to role play?' And you say ‘Yeah sure,’ and then you start playing the roles that they are two daddies -- and you are the son. And then suddenly it’s terribly clear that one or both of them has actually been abused, and they are acting it out with you. I mean whatever you want to say about that — it is actually surprising. And I’m so crazy that I’d actually rather be surprised like that than spend my life shopping. (God, I hate shopping.) Because it’s only people that surprise you, because you never know what they’re going to do, unless you do, and the problem with social distancing is that you begin to think you know what everyone is going to do — since you are with the same people all the time —  and much worse you know what YOU are going to do, and that’s a nightmare. I’m beginning to have fantasies about running down the street screaming, naked. I dreamed that Anderson Cooper and I were having a chat the other day; he seemed to understand. After all we’re both just spoiled entitled rich boys who think the world owes them adoration. (I’ll never forget what my mother once said about Anderson Cooper “Can a man be too good-looking?” And scrunched up into that comment like a smelly spitball was all her homophobia, all of her resentment against every cute boyfriend I had ever been in love with, everything. She always surprised me!) And recently I had the only real urge I’ve ever had to jump in front of a train. And I practically begged a friend to lend me his poppers. And I have also been begging friends just to see me, how pitiful is that? (‘Sorry but now we’re just taking care of ourselves, washing our hands, I hope you take care of yourself too!’ Ugh.). I have to tell you what I did a couple of days after all this happened (on Friday the 13th by the way) I started phoning every single person I barely knew who I thought was even remotely capable of running a speakeasy. I said to them, ‘Hey this would be.a great time to start a speak — after all you have a great space, and you could lock the door and…” Well, no one was interested. And it’s not because I’m an alcoholic —- believe it or not it’s because…well at least we know now, that there has to be something more than our homes and our possessions and our computers and our husbands and our wives and our children. There has to be something more. Like what? Like — wondering what might happen tomorrow.

PLAGUE DIARY 25: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

The Silver Chalice (1954)
The ending is quite thrilling. Jack Palance — who plays Simon the Magician —  is about to pretend to fly from a huge tower to entertain the Emperor Nero. But unfortunately he decides he IS a god and that he actually CAN FLY. (Miscalculation.) As he’s striding towards the ladder to his death, Virginia Mayo runs after him yelling, “Simon, no! Simon, listen to me, listen!” And once he’s dead, Nero decides to execute Virginia Mayo by throwing her off the same tower. Instead of struggling — which would be sexy, but would give her less chance to ‘act,’ Mayo shakes off the Roman soldiers and marches proudly to her own destruction. But the audience of proles just laughs. And then they loot Rome (well, it’s what we expect of them). They may be laughing at Mayo’s makeup — which is certainly outlandish — her artificial eyebrows slanted frighteningly upward, with an orgasmic splash of shadow pasted over each eye — either green or gold depending, I guess, on whether the makeup artist is having a bad day. It’s hard not to laugh at the costumes and makeup. Especially when Paul Newman makes an entrance in a little white number that makes him look just like a gay angel, and the line that screenwriter Lesser Samuels grants him is: “Why have I been arrested, and why am I dressed like this?” When the movie was released on television in 1966 Paul Newman was so embarrassed that he took out an ad telling people not to watch it. I can’t help thinking that he was embarrassed not only by the quality of the film, but by having to play a sensitive sculptor (Newman was secretly bisexual) who — before converting to Christianity, has to listen to a lecture from the Very European Pier Angeli about how Christ has been ‘misrepresented’ as too much of a wimp. Newman manages to sculpt the perfect image of Christ, but only after he is visited by God.  But before that, Angeli looks deeply into his baby blues, and says “Christ did not wear his hair long as people think. His mouth was sensitive and kind — but there was no trace of weakness in it, it was firm.” Ahh, I see. What else was firm, Pier? And how praytell, do you know? Angeli is countering the common misconception about Christ (then, now, forever? ) that he was effeminate. On this subject, Jack Palance minces no words, ranting“Jesus sacked men of their virility and courage!” I can understand the problem; I had a standard issue portrait of Christ over my bed as a child and I must say I always found Christ sexually attractive. Being somewhat of a masochist, his contortions on the cross were for me, more than just aesthetic displays of male anatomy in motion, they were, well — hot. To top if off, Christ is often depicted with blonde hair (when, as Pious Pier Angeli says, he was — ‘very dark.’ This makes one wonder about the racist cliche — was Christ hung? The answer of course is ‘No, dummy, he was nailed to a cross!’). I wish I could say I’m (just trying to be) entertaining here, but I’m not. This movie proves Christianity is damned sexy. And maybe that’s the reason so many people are Lutherans. This ‘Biblical Epic’ not only features a significant lack of contractions (Don’t say: ’I don’t want to,” but “I do not want to’), and the languid Virginia Mayo — draping herself all over Paul Newman (What arms! What a trace of hair at the cleft of his chest!) lamenting “Only when you leave me with your kisses stinging my mouth do I find life sweet” (VIrginia, honey, I’ve been there), but  even Angelic Pier Angeli finds Paul Newman sexually irresistible — even though she’s a Christian: “I should be thinking of the joys of the next world, but my mind, I’m afraid, is too much on this one.” Well how are you supposed to think about the joys of the next world with Newman’s hard young body quivering right next to you, and the image of Christ in your mind — getting all ‘firm’ but still being ‘sensitive’? What I’m saying here is nothing makes sex sexier than Christianity. Except …..I mean did you really think Mike Pence isn’t horny all the time?  Come on, man, can you imagine how hard he gets when he accidentally ends up in an elevator with some hot chick? Most other guys might be just a little horny, but Mike Pence will be ready to give somebody a jailhouse c-section just because he’s not supposed to be turned on. Nothing horns you up like being told to pipe it down. So what do you think it’s going to be like after COVID-19? It’s going to be party central, man. I don’t mean people are going to party more, just that it’s going to be more fun partying, period. With that COVID-19 sensibility  — i.e. ‘don’t get too close / don’t touch’ / think of your half-dead grandmother dying in the old folks home” hanging over you, how sexy is it going to be to just to have a drink with a few friends and not be kind to anyone? Going against any sort of rule is going to make us incredibly horny — because we’re just being so bad. Can I tell you the number of people who have come to visit me saying: “I can’t tell my sister I’m here?” Well, you have my permission not to tell her, we’ll have a drink and trash talk everybody who disapproves of us, and our hearts will (sincerely) go out to all those people living in bachelor condos with tiny windows they can’t open and no balcony who are going KEERAZY, and parents who are being driven nuts by each other and their insane children. And how much more fun is it going to be, simply to kiss somebody who does not share your last name — since you will so vividly remember almost getting a $5000 ticket for holding hands with someone you weren’t married to, or didn’t live with, during COVID-19. Jesus. I’ll tell you something, this COVID-19 is even better than religion for sexing things up. (Christian guilt was kinda  getting old, you know what I mean?) But COVID-19 makes bad really rad, man.

PLAGUE DIARY 25: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

Deep in My Heart (1954)
At the end of this movie, Sigmund Romberg starts singing ‘When I Grow too Old to Dream’ and says to the orchestra: “Here is a new one, you won’t find a part for this on your music stand, so — when you think you’ve got it, just join in.” They do of course,  even though that would be impossible; but that’s the kind of film it is. It’s Easter Weekend and we are being warned over and over not to go out of the house. And TCM can only program tripe like this. There will be an endless array of unwatchable films. Jose Ferrer is boring as usual as Sigmond Romberg; I hoped Romberg’s lovely music would make me sad, or able to revel in my sadness, or something. It did; but this movie barely does justice to him. However, the plot is very relevant to our present situation. The plot is made up, as all plots are; but what is made up is often truer than truth. The fiction here is that all his life Romberg wanted to write old-world waltzes and ballads from ‘deep in his heart’  — but was forced by crass American commercial charlatans to churn out boring, peppy garbage. Then he meets the lovely Doe Avedon, and after being scorned by her, he writes The Student Prince 'from deep in his heart.’ The truth is that there are two worlds; the boring world and the exciting one. It’s something my therapist tells me is a lie; but it’s the lie that tells the truth. You see my father was boring. He retired and went grocery shopping for the last 30 years of his life. He seemed quite happy — much like those people I see going to the grocery store now during social-distancing. They are happy that shopping is now the highlight of their day. The exciting world was my mother’s world— falling in love with tragic alcoholic men who didn’t really love her, ordering booze from the store, fighting with everyone about everything, being angry all the time. My therapist says my problem is that I think I have to be either boring or suicidal; a false dichotomy. No. Especially now. It’s no longer about right and left, it’s about Cavaliers vs Roundheads, decadence versus puritanism. COVID-19 offers a clear choice: do you want to be a good person who cares for others, and have absolutely no fun in your life, or do you want to be a selfish hedonist who grabs greedily at the brass ring at the expense of others?  The illness will go away but the zeitgeist will not. It’s not about whether or to shake hands. It’s about closing the door to everything dangerous. Legend tells us about cemetery orgies during the Bubonic Plague, and Pseudo-flagellants roaming the streets. This is our future. If you’re bad, you’ll be very bad, and have sex in graveyards — and if you’re good, you will be very good, and like Christ on the cross (don’t underestimate the power of that metaphor!) — you will be the gardening people, the people baking, leaving little gifts on people’s doorsteps for the sake of senior citizen dying in old folks homes. You will self flagellate and suffer for us. Many saw the Bubonic Plague as a punishment for sins — prostitutes were driven off the streets into brothels; what was once merely moral disapproval became the law.  But forget about the War Measures Act: it’s going much deeper than that. Deep in your heart. U.S. Surgeon General Jerome Adams recently told African Americans to stop drinking and smoking and stay at home to take care of their families; he quite rightly sees the potential in this plague to cure social ills. Say goodbye to pleasure; in the future we will be able to enjoy it only in small doses, if at all. You think I’m exaggerating?  Get ready for it. Do you know that there was a year when Disney closed? I’ve looked it up online and can’t find any record of it (I’m convinced Disney wiped that fact away. It happened in the late 60s sometime — people were flocking to cinemas to see foreign sex films and Disney died.) But Disney came back in full force after AIDS. Boring came back in style, and now it will be with us forever — and those who decide not to be boring will be accused of endangering their own and everybody else’s. Movies like Deep in My Heart are incredibly boring except for the few moments when Disney Family Entertainment suddenly actually becomes a bit too scarily entertaining. You know what I mean. The tap dancing. It is sign of hope. You know what they are doing when they tap dance? They are trying desperately to entertain you -- for a second -- in what they know is a bad musical. They are panting and sweating and giving you everything they have. They know you are bored out of your mind, and they dream that by banging away at the floor and smiling fit to beat the band — the tediousness will go away. And it is always the disenfranchised who tap dance  the most desperately; after all, keeping you smiling is their only chance. You can see the desperation in Ann Miller’s eyes. She was never very pretty, God didn’t grant her chin — but she knows she can tap dance her way deep into your heart! Have you ever seen the old video of Sammy Davis Jr. tap dancing as a little boy? It's so fierce. He has no choice; he knows that he must be more talented than anyone else at all costs. But you know what’s gorgeous about Ann Miller and Sammy Davis Jr.? They don't tap dance out of the kindness of their Christian hearts; no. They are deeply desperate to entertain themselves. Because they know it is our only hope. Because yes, it’s possible to die of boredom. And the nightmare is, yes you die — but you are still alive.

PLAGUE DIARY 24: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

The Mating Game (1959)
This is the kind of movie my parents used to take me to see when I was 8 years old. All the Doris Day/Rock Hudson comedies — Pillow Talk, Lover Come Back, Send Me No Flowers blend together. This similar one has Debbie Reynolds and Tony Randall. We used to see these movies at the drive-In. For most people today, drive-in’s are a kind of legend, but when I was a kid they were a fantasy come true. We would pile into the car, my sister and I. I remember we used to go in our pajamas and bring pillows to snuggle into. And we would always go to the refreshment stand to get treats when they played the wacky intermission music — with the cartoon characters on the screen parading around munching snacks (did we go to the popcorn stand in our pyjamas? I remember there was always an intermission…) And there were these heavy, metal speakers that you would attach to the window and— and I don’t remember much about the movies, except that they all gave you a good feeling. And that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with having a good feeling. The Mating Game is the best example of that certain formula type American movie with a Frank Capra sensibility. The common folk are good, the government is bad. The country people are wise, the city folk are deluded. And it’s easy enough for one hayseed with a little common sense to challenge the bureaucratic bullshit that clogs up government at the top. In The Mating Game there’s the added appeal of a kind of Annie Get Your Gun attitude to sex. Do you remember the song ‘Doin’ What Comes Natur’lly? It definitely applies here. It was very scandalous for it’s time (1946)— “Sister Lou ain't got a sou / Although she goes out shoppin’ / She gets all her stockings free / Doin' what comes natur’lly!” When their young and vivacious daughter Debbie Reynolds is rolling around in the hay with three young beaus, her parents Ma and Pop Larkin nod, and say — “She’s ripe and ready.” Pop is always trying to get into Ma’s pants and slapping her on the ass, and Ma seems okay with that. They have five children and enjoy watching pigs do it. When Tony Randall comes to collect back taxes on their farm, he just can’t foreclose because, he falls for Debbie Reynolds, and who wouldn’t? Whenever Randall’s boss from the Internal Revenue Service comes to the farm, the animals try to kill him. “I don’t know why Mr Kelsey — but you just don’t seem to hit it off with the animal kingdom,” muses Ma Larkin.Well, the reason my parents used to take us to the movies (and they also had a lot of parties for this reason) is because they would do anything to stop from fighting. And drive-ins were also a way to sell us on the idea everything was alright, and we were just one big happy family. When my mother left my father we didn’t know it was happening. My sister and I were figure skating at the time (don’t ask, I was a terrible figure skater, my ‘pro’ Gordon Menzies once told my mother that I jumped like a ton of bricks). Well one summer my mother took my sister and I to Toronto from Buffalo  — ostensibly to skate at the Cricket Club. We rented an old red brick house on Moore Avenue in East York with dark porches and dark woodwork inside. Well one night I caught my mother kissing a man on the stairs. It was very upsetting. I asked my mother about it and she said “Oh, your father knows.” I’ll never forget the day she told us they were getting a divorce. All I remember was crying endlessly — no no no, it couldn’t be true, our life was over etc. That  —and the fact that I’m a raging effeminate homosexual — were the only two things in my life which didn’t fit. My therapist tells me I have ‘abandonment issues.’ I never thought the divorce was a big issue for me but my therapist says it’s more than that. I always expect everything to end. And everything will end (it’s called death). But you’re not supposed to be worry about that all the time, apparently. But I can’t abandon myself to The Mating Game —- not just because of my abandonment issues — but because the picture it paints of the world — then and now — is just not true. I love to see Mr. Smith go to Washington and watch his integrity smash all the hypocritical government crooks. But today I got on the GO train and it was SO humiliating. The car was high up off the ground and I used the disabled level to get in there.The guy who opened the door was very cute but — don’t be fooled — he hated me on sight (was I that evidently gay? Keep in mind I have pink earphones, I’m sorry, I just do). He asked me if I needed the ramp and I said no, “I just need to be high up on the disabled platform so that I can get directly on the car” — and he looked at me with such contempt and said — “Why don’t you need the ramp?”  — like I was ‘fake disabled’ or something. So I said, “Okay get the ramp” and he went to get it, and I struggled to get in the car. And then I went to sit upstairs because I could be away from people (which is what you’re supposed to do right?) And he said “I get you the ramp and now you just march upstairs?” So the issue was, if I needed the ramp to get in the car, then I shouldn’t be able to get up the stairs.  “Do you want me to tell you the kind of arthritis I have?” He just looked at me. Then I lost it. “Why should I have to describe my disability to you in detail?” And he was furious mad at me, glaring at me and making notes in his little notepad. I called GO which I knew was hopeless. I explained that I felt threatened by this guy, and did he have a right to ask me what my disability was, and challenge whether or not I could use the disability car? And I got the COVID-19 speech “You know the times we are living in, we don’t want the cars to be crowded.” I said. “You don’t have to tell me about the times we are living in — but this car is completely empty.” I was shaking afterwards —which I know is stupid. But I’ll tell you why. It’s because we have absolutely no power. “Would you like to leave a complaint with the Courtesy Department?” he asked. No, frankly I won’t bother. Justin Trudeau is telling us he is going to apply the War Measures Act and there is NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT. And yes this mega world has been getting more and more mega every year. And how are we supposed to deal with feeling so helpless? Or is that the way life is now — everyone is helpless in the face of ‘it’, now? And what is ‘it’ exactly? And do I want to know?

PLAGUE DIARY 23: SKY WRITES REVIEWS OF OLD BAD HOLLYWOOD MOVIES TO KEEP HIM SANE DURING THIS TIME OF HORRIFIC INSANITY

The Blue Bird (1940)
It’s nearly unwatchable, I have to admit I skipped through most of it. It was a grudge film, made in answer to The Wizard of Oz. Shirley Temple is horrible in it, she can’t act and is cloying and nauseating. From the moment it became clear that little ‘Mytyl’ is a selfish girl I’d had enough. Oh, is she going to learn a lesson? Is she going to learn not to be selfish? And spoiler, they are looking for the blue bird of happiness, and duh, it turns out to be in their own damn backyard. There is a woman I know who sends me emails, and I refuse to feel horrible anymore about the fact that I hate her so much. All she can talk about is the opportunity social distancing has given her to catch up on her baking and gardening. I know she means well but I want to hit her with a stick. And then I was taking a French class online tonight and the teacher asked ‘comment ca va?’ And everybody said ‘ca va bien’ and I thought, 'right.' And some guy actually said — ‘after all, it’s nice to be able to take things slowly,’ and I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip his eyes out slowly and eat them for dinner. Do I need to do something about my anger? Why should I? I’m so damned angry at the world for telling me not to be angry, I could friggin’ scream. Let me tell you something — about anger. It’s alright to be angry. Anger is an emotion, and it’s alright to have emotions and express them. Everybody has anger— maybe not as much as I do — but everyone has it, and if you don’t, then you’re repressing it, and it ain’t gonna help you survive COVID-19. Does that sound unfair? Jesus, I’m only trying to help you. You see there are two different types of anger. There is the anger which is unexpressed, which is toxic. People who have this anger look at you with smiling condescension when you tell them you want to wring someone’s neck. “The fact that you let people get to you like that means that you are deeply flawed human being -- and frankly, you might want to look into that.’ No I won’t look into anything, I’m mad for good reason, and there’s nothing wrong with me letting it out. When you express anger  — I’ll tell you something — it goes away. I believe that a lot of people who never express anger are angry all the time. It’s called bitter. I am not bitter, I’m just angry, and there’s a big difference. Once I let it out it’s gone and then I get angry and then I let it out and it’s gone again. It’s a vicious cycle yes, but it makes me feel good. Yes people drive me crazy, and the universe drives me crazy -- especially when it expresses itself through a security guard at the mall who, when I tell her I’m going to a bank machine asks me: ‘which bank machine?’ TD BANK -- you idiot  —the bank I’m standing beside — the one that’s been closed for three weeks! And how come every other bank is open and TD is closed? Who made that rule? Aren’t they rich enough? No, I really want you to get this concept that a rant, is a rant — is okay. I’m not saying you have to get angry, I’m just saying instead of looking skeptically at the angry person (me) like they’ve got a screw loose you might trying looking skeptically at the calm person. I know it’s not very Zen of me but can I give you a little information? Zen doesn’t happen on your Yoga mat in Rosedale. It happens after giving up everything and living on a mountain and realizing that you no longer have any earthly desires, So screw off with me about the friggin’ Zen. Let me tell yo about The Blue Bloody Bird of Friggin' Happiness. After we find out that little Tytyl (This is based on a Belgian play, so what are we supposed to do with that name? You rewrote the whole damn script — so there’s not a scrap of Maeterlinck’s symbolist dialogue left -- and you couldn’t change that stupid name? Yes Maeterlinck was a symbolist, and I don’t actually know exactly what symbolism is, but I can sure tell you it’s not this.) So in the adventure they have while dreaming (which they stole from The Wizard of Oz like everything else!) they meet grandma and grandpa, who are so old and decrepit you want to kill them. I know what you’re thinking. Shall I tell you what some of the young are saying? Yes I’m going to tell you because you deserve to know the truth, or else you wouldn’t be reading this. Some of the young are calling COVID-19 ‘The Boomer Remover.’ And I’m telling you now, God curse me and take me away — but if it’s my time: I’m perfectly glad to be removed, because I’d rather be removed than live in a world where we can never shake hands. That’s what Antony Fauci just said. Yup. We can never shake hands again. ‘No, sorry,’ he said in that gentle fascistic way he has — the same way  they all have of sounding like they are being nice when they are rearranging our friggin’ lives. ‘I certainly think it might not be a bad idea to get rid of handshaking, as a custom.” Well I think it might be a good idea to get rid of the head of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases as a custom! I didn’t like you back during AIDS when you killed us with AZT. You said the same thing back then, ‘hit hard, hit fast’ and we all died. Anyway, after cranky old grandma and grandpa, Mytyl and Tyltyl (did they leave Mylanta at home?) visit the House of Luxury, but guess what -- it doesn’t make them happy because, guess what, money and riches don’t do that. And then they go to the forest and the trees attack them — just because their father is a woodcutter — foreshadowing environmentalism. But it gets better. Why has no one denounced this movie? Because when you get to little Mytyl and Tyltyl’s final adventure, it is an advertisement for the 'Pro-Life Action League.' They enter the land of the — are you sitting down? — the unborn. And guess what, the unborn are a bunch of beautiful children — and some of then are teenagers. And all of them are wearing very revealing togas. I mean, is that appropriate? I don’t think so, the togas are very inappropriate, very short, so short that some of the teen guys in togas were giving me improper thoughts. And they are milling around in some sort of Athenian Utopia (they are all white of course, why is that? In 1940?). And they say things like “I’m not born yet, I’ve been waiting for a long time to be born, I don’t understand why my mommy and daddy don’t want to have me yet!” No, I’m not kidding. And then a ship comes along and does a roll call and all the happy children who are now being born run into the ship, their togas flapping open in the wind (I tried not to look) and all the sad unborn ones just have to remain there forever in the never never land for lost unborn children, crying for the parents they long to have. It’s hard for me to believe that anyone took this drivel seriously for one friggin’ minute, they weren’t that stupid in 1940. I mean I would trade one millisecond of Judy Garland singing ‘Over the Rainbow’ for all 88  minutes of this sopping wet pile of sentimental bird do-do. The Blue Bird  — you can shove it up my credenza! Yes and that’s a filthy pun. (And if you don’t know what a credenza is, look it up. You serve food from a sideboard, which  credenza is a fancy word for, which is what makes it really dirty!) But I deserve that filthy pun and so do you. Sorry. It’s not your fault. Nothing is your fault, because you’re reading this. I’m sorry.