Lesbian Vampires Will Never Die
It’s a headline in today’s edition of Telegraph. I don’t know about Telegraph, but I’ve been saying it for years….
Paul Newman Remembered
Paul Newman, an actor of considerable talent and influence, died today. He was known not only for his great performances in a plethora of films and his long-term marriage to the wonderful Joanne Woodward, but also his many charitable endeavors over many decades, including a center dedicated to anti-drug education, a camp for terminally ill children, and, of course, Newman’s Own line of organic foods, the profits from which are given to charitable causes.
The New York Times has written a wonderful tribute to the man. I was particularly struck by something Newman said only recently, and which bears repeating:
We are such spendthrifts with our lives,” Mr. Newman once told a reporter. “The trick of living is to slip on and off the planet with the least fuss you can muster. I’m not running for sainthood. I just happen to think that in life we need to be a little like the farmer, who puts back into the soil what he takes out.
Requiem for a Heavyweight
After years of saying, “Oh, I want to see that,” I finally got around to watching “Requiem for a Heavyweight.” Based on a teleplay by Rod Serling for Playhouse 90, the film is also scripted by Serling. The film is striking in many ways, not the least of which is its authenticity. Serling, a boxer himself at one time, knew of which he wrote, and many of his stories and teleplays were based on his experience.
From the very first moments, Requiem for a Heavyweight captures the attention. Filmed from Louis “The Mountain” Rivera’s point of view, the camera caputres the onslaught of a very young, very vivacious Cassius Clay (and for those who don’t already know, this is the man who would become Muhammed Ali).
Brutal not only in its depiction of the physicality of boxing, Requiem for a Heavyweight also — and probably most importantly — is particularly stark when it comes to what happens behind the scenes. “Punch drunk,” as they call it, Rivera has reached the end of his career. “Almost the heavyweight champion of the world,” Rivera is battle scarred: his face is ravaged, his speech slurred, and he’s on the verge of losing his vision. His manager, Maish Rennick (Jackie Gleason), is a gambler faced with a substantial debt to the mob. His trainer, Army (Mickey Rooney), is a small fish in a big pond, devoted to Rivera, and unable to move on. Rivera, advised not to fight anymore, goes to an employment agency where he meets Grace Miller (Julie Harris), a woman who comes to Rivera’s aid in the hopes of finding him a job outside the ring.
Anthony Quinn is particularly striking as the Mountain himself, a big man who’s not only lost the bout, but lost his sense of self and his sense of place in the universe. And the resonance — not only the young Muhammed Ali in a film about a fighter who’s lost everything for having been hit in the head too many times, but also in the profile of the kind of man who is likely to turn to boxing in the hopes of making something of himself — is profound.
Requiem for a Heavyweight is one of the better films I’ve seen in a very long time.
Contradictions
One of the most attractive characteristics of a person is the way in which they live out their contradictions.
— Karim Ainouz
“I am…Vampira”
The scene is black and white, the setting gothic — a cathedral perhaps, or maybe a crypt. The lights are low; a candelabra is burning in the shadows. A low mist rises over the vast expanse of the foyer. A figure forms in the mist, advancing through a doorway at the far side of the room. She has an impossibly small waist, a wasp-like cinching between the swelling breasts and the voluptuous hips of a fertility goddess. Her black dress is in tatters, a form-fitting, cleavage-revealing shroud. Fingernails like straight razors extend from her long, pale fingertips. her face is white, placid with dark lips and kohled eyes. Eyebrows like flying arches frame her face, marking the space between her eyes and her black serpentine hair. Her gaze is fixed on the camera before her as she approaches, her eyes locked with yours. She raises her talons to her hair and screams an ear-piercing wail, a banshee’s cry. In a voice deep and rich, a timbre reaching from beyond the grave, she speaks:
“Good evening,” she says. “I am…Vampira.”
from Vamps: An Illustrated History of the Femme Fatale
It was my mother who told me that Maila Nurmi died today. She’s not a fan, nor of the era of the Vampira show. But she knew of Vampira through my love of horror and my friendship with Maila herself, so when she heard the news, her first impulse was to call me.
I first met Maila in 1995, at the Son of Famous Monsters convention at Universal Studios in Los Angeles. Maila made several appearances throughout the weekend, and told some wonderful stories about how Howard Hawkes brought her to Hollywood to make her “the next Lauren Bacall,” her split with Hawkes, her adventures with James Dean, and her later association with the infamous Ed Wood.
One of my favorite stories from the weekend was when she was asked who she most enjoyed working with in Hollywood. She mentioned how much she enjoyed working with Basil Rathbone, her co-star in The Magic Sword, and how much she admired and appreciated him.
“He took me under his wing and advised me, a young actress, about how to be successful in Hollywood.”
“What was his advice?” I asked her.
“Honestly, I don’t remember,” she answered, in inimitable Maila style. “At the time I thought, who the hell is this guy to be telling me what to do?”
We spent a lot of time together that weekend, talking about her expriences as a child and young woman, about great actresses such as Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, and the world of the classic femme fatale. I bought one of my prized possessions from her that weekend, too: a painting of Vampira, by Vampira, standing in Holy Cross Cemetery, with soil from the cemetery mixed in with the paint.
We saw each other many times of over the years, at various events and conventions. One of my favorite memories is the time we were lucky enough to find her at one of her favorite haunts, the McDonald’s on Sunset Boulevard, sitting in the booth under a portrait of Greta Garbo. Intelligent, dynamic, engaging, witty, it was always a delight to visit with her. I always regretted not being able to spend more time with her because I lived so far away, and now I’ll never have that opportunity.
You’ll be missed, Maila. Thank you for everything.
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