PRINCE POPPYCOCK

Cleopatra's nose, had it been shorter, the whole face of the world would have been changed.
--Blaise Pascal

You're a very nosy fellow, kitty cat. Huh? You know what happens to nosy fellows? Huh? No? Wanna guess? Huh? No? Okay. They lose their noses.
--Roman Polanski's immortal line from Chinatown

So the Siren is bringing the twins home from school. She lives in a brownstone with a long flight of steps in front. She gets the twins in the door and goes down to get the Baby, who is now 16 months old and becoming a Heavy Baby. She drops the stroller at the door and starts to step over the threshold, Heavy Baby in arms. This sounds simple and usually it is. Yesterday, however, the Siren's feet got crotchety at the last minute. Instead of performing as expected, they started a pointless quarrel over which one should go first and when and where.

And here is where the Siren got to test Ingrid Bergman's theory below, that we all have a body part we'd rush to protect if something is about to smack into us. If you're Vera Zorina you protect your legs, if you're Ingrid Bergman you protect your face. What Ingrid didn't mention is that if you are a mother, you clutch Heavy Baby to yourself by the purest instinct and let whatever is hurtling toward you go ahead and jolly well hurtle.

And that is how the Siren's face got extremely well acquainted with a door jamb. The house dates to 1855 and the Siren can tell you, when they made door jambs in 1855, they didn't mess around. Do not argue with a 19th-century door jamb. You will lose.

Well, Heavy Baby wailed like the world was ending, but he was completely fine. The same cannot be said for the Siren's face. The doctor informed her that not much can be done for a broken nose, so the Siren opted against the emergency room. Instead she has been sitting around the house with her nose buried in ice like a bottle of Champagne. She felt marginally better once she remembered the small stash of serious painkillers left over from her c-section, but she is still feeling very sorry for herself indeed.

The Siren is a vain little mortal and she was always rather fond of her nose. Here it is, along with the original non-swollen version of her mouth.




And here is what now greets the Siren on what have become lightning-fast and infrequent trips to the mirror.



Okay, she's exaggerating. A little. But no amount of reassurance from all and sundry that it doesn't look "displaced" (hideous word) can keep the Siren from being convinced that this is the future that awaits her once the swelling goes down.

He ain't pretty no more.
--from Raging Bull

So anyway, the Siren had any number of topics she was ready to discuss but La Maison de Siren is now officially the All Nose Worry, All the Time channel. By the way, speaking of Raging Bull, the Siren always chalked up the flying nose-blood to operatic Scorsese excess. Um, no. All that was missing from the Siren's re-enactment was some Mascagni on the soundtrack.

The Siren's landlady, who heard the commotion outside her door and very kindly looked after the kids while the Siren stanched the bleeding, drily told her to be prepared for certain assumptions from strangers, especially since the Siren's story, while true, is possibly the least believable broken-nose excuse ever.

And, as the Siren attempts to distract herself with thoughts of Great Moments in On-Screen Broken Noses, it occurs to her that when women get their nose broken in movies it is almost always at the hands of a man, like Rena Owen in the superb Once Were Warriors. No picture. That one's grisly. When the Siren saw the movie in the theater, no one walked out during the terrifying beating scene, but a couple did leave after a few minutes of watching Owen struggle with her hideously swollen face. The only counter-example the Siren can come up with is Million-Dollar Baby, in which Hilary Swank gets her nose broken by another woman (now that's progress!) in the ring.

But, come to think of it, men almost always get their noses broken at the hands of a man, too. There's Raising Arizona, Mystic River, Something Wild, Witness...does anyone ever get their nose broken by accident? In Body and Soul and Champion the stars' noses get a workout as the Siren remembers, but that's also in the ring. The Siren can't remember if Paul Newman got his nose broken in Somebody Up There Likes Me, but if he does he probably still looked pretty. Newman always looks pretty. If the Siren sounds jealous it's because at the moment she is.

The only character the Siren can remember who got a nose broken by accident is this one

but that's small-screen and the Siren doesn't usually do television. She watches plenty, mind you, she just doesn't blog it.

Wait a minute. The Siren's got it. Diamond Louis, played by Abner Biberman, in His Girl Friday. Doesn't he get his nose broken in a car accident, while attempting to kidnap Rosalind Russell's future mother-in-law? "Can you imagine bumping into a load of cops? They come rolling out like oranges!"

Any other examples? Come on, cheer a Siren up. Right now she's just moping around contemplating her daughter's definitive pronouncement: "Mommy. You need to WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING." Meanwhile it's time to change the ice in the Ziplock bag. What the Siren really needs now is a cute little ice pack, like Myrna Loy had in The Thin Man...

Here's one writer who can stay on strike for good, as far as the Siren is concerned: the one who decided it would be a kick to mock Sunrise during the Oscars. It takes some kind of four-door, chrome-plated, 400-horsepower nerve to diss that movie for being soooo old-fashioned and simple ("the Woman from the City"! "sounds like a fun shoot!" tee-hee!) when it's visually and thematically more sophisticated than a whopping majority of last year's Hollywood output. And then they hand that crass joke to Cameron Diaz, no one's idea of Janet Gaynor Redux, right before she gives out the cinematography award. Hey, if you're honoring cinematography, Sunrise is a natural choice for a bit of ribbing. Just like if you're handing out the Nobel Peace Prize, you wanna warm up the crowd with some well-chosen Martin Luther King jokes. The Siren only now has managed to get up from bed and remove the ice-pack from her forehead.

Aside from that moment, which should live in infamy, the Siren has a radical thought.

The Oscar show is too short.

Yes, you heard me, too short. Too short and too goddamn slick. No wildly inappropriate speeches, no gasps, no boos, no one going off teleprompter. Just patter, Oscar, speech, orchestra play-off. The show has become as exciting as watching a line of limos pull up to a drive-through bank and getting the statue from a Marchesa-draped teller. Thank goodness for Jon Stewart bringing back the charming young woman from Once, and Tilda Swinton putting her thumb in the eye of fashion editors everywhere with that deconstructed, proudly asexual velvet dress, like a monk's robe that the brothers forgot to finish sewing after vespers.

But that wasn't enough, was it? It's just no fun anymore. Between seeing some of the most talented people in the industry given the bum's rush off the stage, and stylists who insist on dressing every starlet like AudreyGraceAva, the Siren is seriously wondering if next year she should just watch old Oscarcast clips on Youtube.

One of these days the Siren will blog about something and find out that John McElwee hasn't already covered it. Wonderful piece here on Mary Astor. Operator_99 also had two rare, lovely pictures of Astor. And James Wolcott jumps into the fray to say that while there is no excuse for Mary's perm in The Maltese Falcon, the rest of her was perfect.

It's Oscar weekend, and the Siren will of course be watching the show, at the grand Brooklyn abode of two fellow film bloggers. Her enjoyment will not be lessened by the fact that she hasn't seen any of the Best Picture nominees. Nope, not one. Bad, yes, very bad, but you see, The Woman in the Window was re-released, and there was this Max Ophuls series at BAM, and...well, anyway. The Siren assures her readers that 2008 will find her keeping up more with this modern stuff. Friends like Girish and Filmbrain tell her some of the youngsters nowadays are quite talented.

If you want a roundup from someone who got out of the house in 2007, Dennis Cozzalio has an excellent post that gathers up all the reading on the awards that you could possibly want. If it's live-blogging you want, Oscar obsessive Nathaniel R is the perfect choice. And don't forget to track the Supporting Actress race with Stinky Lulu.

The balloting for Goatdog's Oscar contest has, alas, closed but he's also blogging away about his Oscar obsessions, and has his own maverick prediction for what will win on Sunday. The Siren didn't vote in the contest but perhaps she should have. Oscar-winning has this weird disconnect from actual films, and not seeing anything might actually give you enough objectivity to predict the strange ways the voting turns.

Over at Newcritics, Robert Stein looks at Lindsay aping Marilyn and says enough, already, with photographing tinsel and trying to tell us it's gold. The Siren empathizes in a big way (although his personal connection no doubt makes it that much worse). Marilyn gets it worse than anybody, poor soul, as the Siren once noted here. But there are others, too, and all of them give her the shrieking blue fantods. Stop, please, just stop it. Find your own glamor and leave our memories alone.

Finally, are you keeping up with Larry Aydlette's Burt-a-Thon, in which we get 30 days of Burt Reynolds? Larry went through two incarnations, as That Little Round-Headed Boy and the Shamus, before finally revealing himself as the uncommonly knowledgeable entertainment editor of The Palm Beach Post. This series is the best thing he has done yet, and that is no small praise. Reynolds has become a way for Larry to re-examine, resurrect and otherwise rectify the critical literature on a whole section of 70s cinema, what one part of the public was adoring while the highbrows watched the Easy Riders and Raging Bulls. It does what all good blogging should do--gives you a perspective you aren't getting from the mainstream. The Siren has been eating it up. Start here and work your way back, or start here and work forward, it's a must either way.

...or helped to invent it, anyway. This one is for the Siren's beauty blogger pals at Bois de Jasmin, Beauty Addict, Koneko's (Mostly) Beauty Diary, MonkeyPosh and Now Smell This, but most especially Cavewoman and Annie of Blogdorf Goodman.




The year is 1925, and Astor is filming Don Q, Son of Zorro with Douglas Fairbanks Sr.

Perc and Ern Westmore were handling makeup and hairdressing on Don Q: As I remember, it was the first time these departments had been created. Greasepaint came in a stick--somewhat like a big lipstick. Stein's Pink #2, I remember, was what I used. And it was pink, whitish pink. It was applied in streaks all over the face, then smoothed until it filled every pore. With a towel wrapped turbanlike around the head, you leaned over and using a powder puff loaded with a pinkish powder slapped it all over until the grease had absorbed it. [Sounds sexy, yes? -C.] Really very similar to the method clowns use. Eyebrows disappeared, eyelashes were coated, lips covered. Then it was brushed off nice and smooth.

Lipstick was a dark red. Reds went black on film, but if the tone was too light one's mouth would look white. The men used a lighter lipstick and less base makeup. There was eyebrow shadow, brown, and mascara, black, and then something that was called "cosmetique," a black cake of guck that was melted over a spirit lamp and then applied to the ends of the eyelashes with a match or a toothpick. This was "beading": It accomplished what false eyelashes do today.

As technical improvements made the film faster, the makeup began to look even more masklike and white on the scren. It was no good using darker tones of pink because they tended to "go black" if you moved into a shadow.

One day in the makeup room Perc Westmore and I played around with mixing the Stein's Pink with a just a touch of the brown eyeshadow. We melted it together, and stirred it up and put it on, and there was an ivory cast to the color that had never been used. On the screen it was miraculous. Bones began to show, skin looked natural and the tiny muscles of facial expression that had blanked out before were more evident. It was the beginning of panchromatic makeup. I wish I had held a patent on it!

The above is from Mary Astor's memoirs of her career, A Life on Film, which the Siren has been happily re-reading this week. What a good book it is, full of details other stars leave out. She gives you the nitty-gritty of casting, costumes, what the lighting was like and how it changed, the drudgery of on-set life, the weirdness of seeing yourself on screen and the split most stars make between their real selves and the "product." Astor even emphasized that split by writing her autobiography in two stages--the first, My Story, going into her many personal travails but pretty much leaving the movies untouched, and the second, A Life on Film, covering her professional experiences.

She was quite beautiful, with ethereal looks that never read as blatantly sexual on film, although she was a convincing (and hilarious) nymphomaniac in The Palm Beach Story. As with many actresses before and since, looks were deceiving. Of the two heroines of Red Dust there seems little question that it was Astor, not Jean Harlow, who was steaming up the sheets when the cameras stopped rolling.

That became clear during Astor's custody battle for her daughter, which occurred during the making of Dodsworth, the Siren's favorite Astor performance. Her ex-husband got hold of her diary and introduced it into evidence. Astor found her red-hot affair with George S. Kaufman splashed over the newspapers. If you believe Kenneth Anger the diary was practically pornographic; if you believe Mary the diary was mostly romantic doodlings, no more steamy than a Book-of-the-Month club selection. In any event, the diary was eventually destroyed by the court so we'll never know for sure. Samuel Goldwyn, who was producing Dodsworth, was asked at the time if he would use the morals clause in her contract to fire Astor. To his everlasting credit, he thought about it and said, "A mother fighting for her child? This is good!" Astor stayed in the picture.

Without question her role for the ages was the scheming Brigid O'Shaughnessy in The Maltese Falcon. Astor says that to get the breathless quality she wanted when Brigid was about to spin another pathological whopper, she would hyperventilate before takes. The result was that with lines such as "I--I don't know what you mean," Astor's throbbing contralto voice gave lying a uniquely sexual quality. You relish hearing it as much as Bogart does, until he finally kisses her, no doubt to see if there's another way to get her to hyperventilate. Later film noir femmes would try similar tricks, but Astor provided the template.



She was pressed into a film career by her parents, who energetically sponged off her for years until Astor went to court to pull the plug. Perhaps the fact that she didn't choose her own career is part of why Astor often underrates herself in A Life on Film, dismissing something like Beau Brummel, which the Siren thought quite fine. She brought discipline and high standards to her work at all times, but acting evidently never engaged her full intelligence.

She turned to writing novels in later years, and the Siren actually read one of them. As a teenager in Alabama the Siren was the sometime babysitter for a toddler with a quadruple-barreled polysyllabic Southern name that everbody shortened to P.D. His parents were movie buffs and on their shelves were, as the Siren remembers, an early version of David Thomson's Biographical Dictionary of Film, some David Shipman and a few books of stills. After P.D. was coaxed into bed the Siren would curl up with the books, and one night she discovered A Place Called Saturday. The book, published in 1968, concerns a married woman who is raped, conceives a child and decides to keep and raise it anyway. The Siren doesn't remember much about the quality or the plot of the book, although she did read it all the way through, but she does remember that it opens with a very squirm-inducing scene of the wife in the aftermath of the rape. The book was the last one Astor wrote, and she died in 1987, aged 81, at the Motion Picture and Television Country House.

The first picture shows Mary Astor in the 1920s, the next as she appeared in Don Q. Her hair was auburn and naturally curly, and A Life on Film describes how novelist Elinor Glyn came up with a way to make it look "Spanish" on film. At a dinner party, Glyn pulled Mary over and proceeded to slick her hair back, piece by piece, with the butter from the dining room table. This was before hair gel as well as panchromatic makeup. Astor assures us that they found something less off-putting to use under the blazing hot lights of the time.

The middle picture shows Astor in the 1930s, and the bottom one is from The Maltese Falcon. While looking up Astor the Siren came across this vituperative essay about how she's the worst thing in The Maltese Falcon. Poppycock, says the Siren. But, to echo one of the Siren's favorite blogs, what do you think--allure?

And there she is, bending gracefully over us all and doing a splendid job of boosting the Siren's traffic (thanks, Mr. Wolcott!)--voilà, Vera Zorina, pictured above in her Waternymph costume from The Goldwyn Follies. Another final-round question for Silver Screen Trivial Pursuit (congratulations, Jonathan). One of Samuel Goldwyn's found-and-losts, like the gorgeous, luckless Anna Sten. Until recently the Siren knew Vera primarily as George Balanchine's second wife and the woman whom Ingrid Bergman replaced in For Whom the Bell Tolls. But the Fox channel ran one of the ballerina's few starring vehicles, a fluffy thing called I Was an Adventuress. And you know what? Zorina wasn't half bad, even when she wasn't dancing.

She had a refreshingly strong profile and a figure that was sheer perfection--toned beyond belief, more buxom and far less sylph-like than later Balanchine stars like Tanaquil Le Clercq or Suzanne Farrell. (However, upon comparison with the above still, the Siren thinks Zorina was padded quite a bit for Adventuress, a pretty common practice at the time.) Her acting is somewhere around the level of Hedy Lamarr on a really good day--definitely not great, but watchable. She has warmth and presence.

I Was an Adventuress was directed by Gregory Ratoff (hey kids, we all forgot him for Great Comic Character Actors and we shouldn't have). According to IMDB the movie was a remake of an Edwige Feuillère vehicle, J'étais une aventurière, and that's all the site says about the original, except that it was banned in Finland. (Your guess is as good as the Siren's.) Anyway, in the Hollywood version Zorina is the accomplice and lure for two crooks, played with gusto by Erich von Stroheim and Peter Lorre. Stroheim and Lorre have excellent chemistry, more so than the romantic leads. The two con artists give the same sub rosa sense of a bickering couple that you get from the Sidney Greenstreet/Lorre outings, as the Stroheim character tries to rein in Lorre's kleptomania and Lorre swears he'll learn to restrain himself, then lifts another watch.

Zorina poses as a countess in order to set up the trio's high-born marks, and her dancing is worked in too, somehow--she's one of those prima-ballerina-fake-countess-grifters that were littering Europe at the time. Would it surprise you to learn that she falls in love with one millionaire she's supposed to be conning? that the couple marry, and one big scene of domestic bliss finds her doing a perfect arabesque in the bedroom? (That was kind of unexpected, actually.) How about that von Stroheim and Lorre are determined to return Zorina to her crooked ways?

Well, I'll tell you what would surprise you--the ballet sequence at the end. The Siren was not expecting to see Zorina's dance partner arrive in full armor, and as he stomped onstage in this Renaissance Faire getup the Siren murmured "Oh, dear." But she should have banked more on George Balanchine's genius, because not only does the dance still work, it is also quite dark and startingly sexual, a different take on the tragic close of Swan Lake. There's a marvelous moment when Zorina bends away from her partner, the move shot straight-on so that she seems to peel away from him like the petal of a flower.

So the movie is ridiculous, but at the same time very enjoyable, with Zorina looking lovely, Lorre approaching the prime years of his Hollywood period and the Balanchine ballet to savor at the end. You can't look at the film and think the brevity of Zorina's career was as terrible a loss as Frances Farmer or Dorothy Comingore, but the Siren did think it was a pity the ballerina's star didn't survive long enough to see her forge a real career in musicals. She could certainly act as well as Cyd Charisse, and her dancing was magical.

A little background here on Zorina. One of the most poignant parts of A. Scott Berg's Goldwyn biography comes when he describes the producer's one-sided crush on Zorina, which played out as The Goldwyn Follies was filming in 1938. The ballerina was just 20 years old and, unlikely as it seems when you read about Goldwyn's behavior, she appears genuinely not to have perceived his feelings for her. Zorina had fallen in love with Balanchine, and was consumed with him both personally and professionally.

Goldwyn, meanwhile, threw everything he had into making her debut as memorable as possible, including hiring Vernon Duke to write the music for the Waternymph ballet. He watched Zorina's screen tests over and over, lavished advice and favors on her, snuck over to Balanchine's closed studio to glimpse her rehearsing. Lillian Hellman, on the lot to try and shake some sense into the Follies script, observed one day that Goldwyn always departed the studio minutes after Zorina did. She alerted colleagues and word spread. With malicious enjoyment, the others in the building started a betting pool based on how many minutes would pass between Zorina's exit and Goldwyn's. After a few weeks of this an enterprising writer followed Goldwyn and discovered that the producer's cab was tailing Zorina all the way to her house. Goldwyn would watch Zorina disappear inside, then order the taxi back to his office.

Like everyone else in Hollywood apart from Zorina, Goldwyn's wife Frances had got wind of her husband's behavior, but she became convinced it was an actual affair. One night she telephoned George Cukor, and her old friend arrived to find Frances descending the stairs, every item she owned packed and ready to go. Cukor ordered her back in the house and that, apparently, was that. After the Follies Zorina never made another movie for Goldwyn, although he loaned her to other studios and allowed her to work in theater. For decades Zorina took this as a comment on her talent; Berg writes that "something so far removed from her dancing as the preservation of a marriage had never even occurred to her."

But it wasn't just Goldwyn's withdrawal that doomed Zorina's career. What finished her chances for real stardom was being sacked from For Whom the Bell Tolls in 1943. Zorina actually spent three weeks on set with Gary Cooper, only to have Paramount abruptly change its mind and replace her with Ingrid Bergman. Bergman had lobbied frantically for the part and was Hemingway's choice as well. The co-author of Bergman's autobiography, Alan Burgess, says Paramount hired Zorina in the first place largely to save money, on the theory that once upon a time nobody had heard of Vivien Leigh, either. TCM's notes also cite an old rumor that Zorina, whose marriage to Balanchine turned out to be unhappy, was having an affair with somebody important.

Burgess says that when the first rushes came back, the studio told the press that "light was apparently draining off Vera's face when she was photographed from above." The Siren has no idea what that means and poor Zorina didn't, either. Ingrid Bergman had her own theory:

The real trouble was that Vera was a ballerina. Yet she had to run around those mountains like a little wild animal. And Vera was afraid of damaging her legs.

They were to her why my face was to me. If an onrushing train came against me, I would protect my face. Vera would protect her legs. So when they saw the first rushes of the film taken in the mountains this came through quite clearly; and they decided that Vera was unsuitable. They took her off For Whom the Bell Tolls, and gave her another picture.

This is an interesting and rather charming explanation on Bergman's part, but the Siren doesn't buy it and never has. For one thing, what was this other picture? Zorina's next, Follow the Boys, came an entire year later and was made for Universal. This article by Robert Osborne seems far more plausible. Zorina wrote in her memoirs that Paramount couldn't have hated her rushes, since all she ever filmed was one short scene where she carried a loaf of bread. The ballerina believed that filming was deliberately stalled while director Sam Wood and Cooper waited for the actress they really wanted, Bergman, to be finished with Casablanca. Zorina said David O. Selznick, who had Bergman under contract, told her many years later that he had engineered her firing.

So many machinations and bitter feelings over a film whose charm has always eluded the Siren. If any of her readers want to praise For Whom the Bell Tolls the Siren would love to hear it, but she always found it dull at best and risible at worst, with all the politics carefully siphoned off and most of the cast sporting every accent conceivable except Spanish. The Siren wishes Zorina were still around. She'd tell the dancer that, in all honesty, she prefers I Was an Adventuress.

Rehearsals of Marathon Man in New York. Dustin Hoffman and Roy Scheider are about to rehearse their first scene together. Hoffman has the vehicle role and is the more important of the two, but Scheider, coming off the lead in Jaws, is not chopped liver.

In the story, they play brothers. Hoffman is a graduate student. Scheider, whom he adores and thinks is in the oil business, actually works for the government as a killer and a spy.

Hoffman has just been brutally mugged in the park. He has written this to Scheider. Scheider suspects it was not an accident--bad guys are trying to get at him by threatening his kid brother. So he comes down from Washington to visit.

It's night, and Hoffman is asleep. Suddenly, he realizes he's not alone in his apartment, so he grabs a flashlight from his bed table and points it around the room, trying to catch the intruder. As he does this, he has a line of dialog:

Hoffman:

(very James Cagney)

I got a gun, you make a move, I'll blow your ass to Shanghai.

Okay, rehearsal. A mock set is prepared. Hoffman lies down, closes his eyes. Scheider mimes opening a door, bangs his foot down to indicate the closing of the door, and Hoffman springs awake, mimes getting the flashlight, and says his Shanghai line.

Then rehearsals stop.

Hoffman says to hold it and he turns to the director, John Schlesinger, and tells him that he thinks it is wrong for his character to have a flashlight in his bed table.

Schlesinger tells him we'll get to it later, let's continue rehearsing the scene, please.

Hoffman shakes his head...

A lot of people have flashlights by their bed tables, Schlesinger tries.

Hoffman isn't playing a lot of people, he is playing Babe and Babe wouldn't have a flashlight by his bed table.

Schlesinger makes another attempt: You've just been mugged, you're upset, you're taking precautions.

No sale...

Through all this, silent and waiting, stands Scheider.

And that is probably my strongest memory of the situation--it took an hour, by the way--Scheider, waiting quietly, a perfect gentleman through it all.

--William Goldman, Adventures in the Screen Trade

The Siren mourns the passing of perfect gentleman and great actor Roy Scheider. She will treasure his performances as long as she is able to prop herself up in front of a screen, including Marathon Man, The French Connection and the unavoidable, permanent classic Jaws. But her favorite Scheider role will always be Joe Gideon in All That Jazz, the greatest movie musical of the past 30 years.

Edward Copeland has a tribute up. So does Greencine Daily, with accompanying links. Some time ago Bob Westal had a fabulous Bob Fosse blogathon in which he discussed All That Jazz at some length; Bob now has an appreciation up, with a great clip. Nathaniel R also went into great detail on Scheider's fine performance. Kim Morgan also has a tribute post on Scheider, written with her trademark verve and passion. Siren faves Ivan at Thrilling Days of Yesteryear and the Cinephile also have memorials up. And, via the fabulous Sheila, an incredible series of Roy Scheider-themed posters from the 1970s at Harry Moseby Confidential. Finally, a wonderful personal reminiscence by LowerManhattanite at the Group News Blog. And check the comments for another charming story, from Gerald Howard. And one more, the most thorough of all, from Ferdy on Films.