[Starfucking] Gone With the Wind
Pauline Gore answering her own phone reminded me. Back when I was doing fundraising in NYC, I got a tip that Irene Mayer Selznick, the daughter of Louis B. Mayer, the wife of David O. Selznick, was setting up a foundation we might be interested in approaching. I called the number, and instead of getting a secretary or an assistant or hell a nurse, I heard this low primordial growl, "Hulllooooo....?" It rose and fell for several syllables; it was as if a coelacanth had washed up on the back porch. (Her best-known quote: "I'd like to grow very old as slowly as possible.") I managed to stutter out a couple of questions, and she took down my name and address and promised to send a brochure. But in terms of Six Degrees of Separation, I had already snagged a pot of gold!
I remember being at Bella Abzug's apartment one afternoon — this was probably mid-80s — when the phone rang. Bella lived alone and answered her own phone and had a very distinctive voice. To screen her calls, she could do a dead-on impersonation of a receptionist — bland, a touch of a lilt — "Who's calling?" Apparently, it was someone cold-calling from NOW. For $25. "Excuse me, but do you have any idea who Ms. Abzug is?" The receptionist was disappearing, and Bella's own voice — that of God and the Last Judgment and the Burning Pit of Everlasting Hell — was beginning to emerge at this point. The young woman at the other end of the phone had apparently never heard of Bella Abzug. "Well, she's only THE GODDAMN FOUNDER OF THE GODDAMN WOMEN'S MOVEMENT!" And with that, she slammed the phone down, turns to me, and says, completely calm now, "Well, it's not her fault; why should she know who I am?" But all I could imagine was the woman at the other end of the phone, wondering what had just happened. (Here's a bio of Bella, and here's a quote: "They used to give us a day — it was called International Women's Day. In 1975 they gave us a year, the Year of the Woman. Then from 1975 to 1985 they gave us a decade, the Decade of the Woman. I said at the time, who knows, if we behave they may let us into the whole thing. Well, we didn't behave and here we are." I miss her every time I pick up a newspaper or watch the TV. You could drop every politician now in office into the sea, and it would not make one bit of difference.)
And speaking of Louis B. Mayer ..... This was probably sometime in the late 80s. MoMA was doing an Homage to Ealing Studios — slight stuff, pleasant enough — and opening the series was Kind Hearts and Coronets. I hadn't managed to pick up a ticket in advance, and ended up at the front of the standby line. The standby line outside Titus II wound by a small alcove with water fountains and access to the stage. As ticketholders filed in, I turned around so I wouldn't feel like some beggar out of Dickens, and there in the alcove was Alec Guinness, a little nervous, more than a little shy, pacing in a circle. For a few seconds we avoided eye contact — Please don't let him speak to me! What should I ask him? — before I turned around and stared at the ticketholders.
I finally did get a seat, about two-thirds back on the aisle. Six o'clock came: no movie. Six-thirty. Nada. Finally, a quarter till 7, the back doors of the theatre fly open and down the aisle wafts Lillian Gish! By then she must have already been in her mid to late 90s, weighed maybe 75 pounds in her clothes, and she was so close I could have reached out and touched her gossamer gown. (Note: Lillian Gish made her first movie in 1912.) She went straight for the podium, and began to apologize profusely. It had started to rain, and it was the worst of rush hour, and she hadn't been able to get a cab at her hotel several blocks away, so she had had to hoof it. But (brightening) she was so so pleased and honored to be here tonight to introduce her great good friend........And then Lillian Gish had a very public very senior moment. "Alec Guinness!" someone in the front row whispered, loud enough for her and the rest of the theatre to hear. "Yes! My good friend Alec Guinness!" Guinness came up to the podium and turning to Gish, who had never been properly introduced: "Thank you, madam, whoever you are!" Kind Hearts is a nice enough movie, but that memory will be one of the last to go.
I remember being at Bella Abzug's apartment one afternoon — this was probably mid-80s — when the phone rang. Bella lived alone and answered her own phone and had a very distinctive voice. To screen her calls, she could do a dead-on impersonation of a receptionist — bland, a touch of a lilt — "Who's calling?" Apparently, it was someone cold-calling from NOW. For $25. "Excuse me, but do you have any idea who Ms. Abzug is?" The receptionist was disappearing, and Bella's own voice — that of God and the Last Judgment and the Burning Pit of Everlasting Hell — was beginning to emerge at this point. The young woman at the other end of the phone had apparently never heard of Bella Abzug. "Well, she's only THE GODDAMN FOUNDER OF THE GODDAMN WOMEN'S MOVEMENT!" And with that, she slammed the phone down, turns to me, and says, completely calm now, "Well, it's not her fault; why should she know who I am?" But all I could imagine was the woman at the other end of the phone, wondering what had just happened. (Here's a bio of Bella, and here's a quote: "They used to give us a day — it was called International Women's Day. In 1975 they gave us a year, the Year of the Woman. Then from 1975 to 1985 they gave us a decade, the Decade of the Woman. I said at the time, who knows, if we behave they may let us into the whole thing. Well, we didn't behave and here we are." I miss her every time I pick up a newspaper or watch the TV. You could drop every politician now in office into the sea, and it would not make one bit of difference.)
And speaking of Louis B. Mayer ..... This was probably sometime in the late 80s. MoMA was doing an Homage to Ealing Studios — slight stuff, pleasant enough — and opening the series was Kind Hearts and Coronets. I hadn't managed to pick up a ticket in advance, and ended up at the front of the standby line. The standby line outside Titus II wound by a small alcove with water fountains and access to the stage. As ticketholders filed in, I turned around so I wouldn't feel like some beggar out of Dickens, and there in the alcove was Alec Guinness, a little nervous, more than a little shy, pacing in a circle. For a few seconds we avoided eye contact — Please don't let him speak to me! What should I ask him? — before I turned around and stared at the ticketholders.
I finally did get a seat, about two-thirds back on the aisle. Six o'clock came: no movie. Six-thirty. Nada. Finally, a quarter till 7, the back doors of the theatre fly open and down the aisle wafts Lillian Gish! By then she must have already been in her mid to late 90s, weighed maybe 75 pounds in her clothes, and she was so close I could have reached out and touched her gossamer gown. (Note: Lillian Gish made her first movie in 1912.) She went straight for the podium, and began to apologize profusely. It had started to rain, and it was the worst of rush hour, and she hadn't been able to get a cab at her hotel several blocks away, so she had had to hoof it. But (brightening) she was so so pleased and honored to be here tonight to introduce her great good friend........And then Lillian Gish had a very public very senior moment. "Alec Guinness!" someone in the front row whispered, loud enough for her and the rest of the theatre to hear. "Yes! My good friend Alec Guinness!" Guinness came up to the podium and turning to Gish, who had never been properly introduced: "Thank you, madam, whoever you are!" Kind Hearts is a nice enough movie, but that memory will be one of the last to go.
posted by Chris Hodge at 1:49 PM
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