The Bad and The Beautiful
This is an oldie we got here, but it’s got a sophisticated script with some real clever devices that had me thinking quite a bit this past week. The Bad and The Beautiful (1952) is a film set within a film of sorts. One of the first films to detach from the surrealism of the industry and focus in on a group of people in the industry, much of the setting was within studios or staged as commentary against the real Hollywood.
For the hero of this relentless saga is a Hollywood producer who is a heel, a West Coast, Noel Cowardish scoundrel, a perfect Kirk Douglas-type bum. And the fine job of drawing him and quartering him that is done in the course of two hours by a top staff of Metro dissectors is enough to make the blood run sour and cold.
First, they slit him down the middle and show, in considerable detail, how he blandly double-crosses a director who has helped him through his early struggling years. Then they lop off another portion and show, in even greater detail, how he drags and romances a sad young actress to glittering triumph and then gives her the air. Finally, with what’s left, they show us how he baits a young author to Hollywood, then throws the guy’s wife to a wolfish actor just so he’ll be free to work on a script. (New York Times, January 16, 1953)
Coming around full-circle, Shields is out of business after his film, written by the widower James Lee Bartlow, fails to meet his standards of excellence. Begging for one more shot at a great film, his three ex-partners are now shining stars in the business. In the end, we’re left with an ambiguous ending, huddled over a telephone eavesdropping on a call between Shields and his financial backer, not knowing whether they’d forgive him and take the deal or laugh and walk away.
Bordering the notion of good or bad, Jonathan Shield’s is a character driven by excellence and success. By the virtues of his flaws, he is able to transform any situation into a golden opportunity, though leaving a mess behind in the process. While stealing Fred’s brilliant film idea, womanizing Georgia and deceiving her into love, and accidentally sending James’ wife to her death in a horrifying plane crash, he focused in on his job and made it work. While business is strictly business, he lacked the compassion that would have saved his friendships, but also hinder his path to success.
So, as someone who is bound to the creative field, what choices do I make? I certainly do feel motivated. In fact, sometimes I am driven too strongly by the scent of success. Perhaps the greatest acknowledgement would be my concession to any semblance of a normal life. Either I am driven by my work, or driven by a drive for happiness. Unless the two are mutually exclusive, it seems that the rest of the world will have to wait in line for me to stay put in one place long enough.
I empathize with Jonathan Shields. He’s an enabler who makes all the unethical sacrifices to get the job done. What scares me is the dehumanized manner in which business is assumed. Business is business after all, right?
My cab driver approves of interracial fucking
A swift 4 hours and 39 minutes of air time on an empty 7am Virgin America flight to JFK left me a bit dazed and confused, especially when at touch down, New York air temperature was at about 26º. My usual airport fan fare involves 20 minutes of shuffling my terrible Cantonese to a Mandarin speaking cab driver from WK Limo, some cheapo Chinese town car service located on Allen street. After huddling for about 25 minutes, I got into the cab and started to go through the motions of Chinglish again.
Me: Two Zero Three Souuuuuu(f) Three Street
Cabbie: What the fuck are you saying? Ah too zelo tree?
They usually give a chuckle when I apologize for my lack of Mandarin speaking skills, and go through the details of how I’m from San Francisco and my family is from Hong Kong. For some reason this guy starts talking about whether or not where I live is dangerous.
Cabbie: Where you live… do you have a lot of… blacks?
Me: Umm… no not particularly… it’s got a lot of people in general.
Cabbie: Do you like… Gee.. Gee or ge… Bush?
Me: Why?
Cabbie: I like-a… you know?… woman… white woman president?
Me: Oh, you mean Hillary Clinton.
Cabbie: You don’t like Hillary Clinton?
Me: I like Obama.
Cabbie: You just like my son, no like woman.
At that point, he hands me a pack of cigarettes and offers me a smoke. Puffing away on his own fag before I could turn down his offer, the car filled with smoke as the sun glared around the overpasses on the BQE and into his eyes. He fumbled with the GPS all while ignoring the flow of traffic or the car ahead of our lane. Soon after, he yelled ‘Shit!’ a dozen or so times after the GPS began speaking in German. ‘Shit… do you know how to fix this piece of shit?‘ he asked. At that point he was already on to another subject.
Cabbie: Yesterday I take man to Atlantic City, drive 2 half 3 (hours)… pay tree hundred! His girlfriend very pretty. Beautiful. You know girl from China? Come to Amelica, so beautiful, nice skin, soft eyes, so nice.
Me: Sure.
Cabbie: Girl from Amelica, even nicer. If they go find Amelican… *makes a hole with index and thumb and puts his finger through it*… and fuck… fucking… make very beautiful baby.
Me: Ummmm watch out we’re drifting into another lane.
I felt a little bad that I wasn’t going to Atlantic City.
Drunken idea to Los Angeles
In a series of events on Sunday Night at Benders, I somehow ended up in Kiya’s rental car with Samuel de Goede, a designer from Amsterdam I met through my ongoing portrait series, headed toward Los Angeles the next day. In the months leading up to my show in March, I’ve been doing some crazy stuff but this probably ended up being the most enjoyable.
We met with Madeline of Chuck’s Vintage, an amazing store on Melrose Ave. chock full of rare vintage finds like bomber and flight jackets with original artifacts like pens, zippo lighters, and photographs.
Probably some of the coolest stuff you can see in person. Being able to touch sixty year old garments and read the story behind them extracts the type of passion that Chuck’s targeted audience has for nostalgia and vintage clothing.