Sunday, September 18, 2022

Films To While The Class Struggle By- With Serge Eisenstein’s "Strike" (1925) In Mind

Films To While The Class Struggle By- With Serge Eisenstein’s "Strike" (1925) In Mind




DVD Review  

By Frank Jackman

Strike, starring a cast of hundreds of working people and others, directed by Serge Eisenstein, 1925

No question, no question at all that some political films whether they were intended as propaganda for a certain viewpoint as with the film under review, Russian mad man filmmaker Serge Eisenstein’s 1925 Strike, or because as the story line developed everybody was compelled to think through the implications of the cover-up and preclude to figure out the coup in a film like Costa-Garvas’ Z. Here is the beauty of Eisenstein’s work whether with Strike or an effort like Potemkin, the one with the famous baby carriage scene on the Odessa Steps. The medium is the message to steal a phrase from an old-time social media commentator (okay, okay I will give the attribution-Marshall McLuhan).   The whole thing is done, powerfully done, with nothing but absolutely stunning cinematography, a few signboards (in Russian with English subtitles), and some very interesting and varied mood music which if I am not mistaken included some jazz theme stuff from Duke Ellington, and if not him then definitely some jazz riffs along with that inevitable classic music that one would have expected from a Russian filmmaker who grabbed what he could from the Russian Five.        

Now the question of who a film is directed at is usually pretty much just to lure in general audiences, maybe if it is cartoonish then kids but usually general audiences. Eisenstein in this film though is directing his efforts to working people in order for them to draw some important lessons about the class struggle. Of course Eisenstein was working shortly after the October Revolution of 1917 in his own country and so he probably was more or less committed to this type of film in the interests of the Soviet government and of the world revolution that was still formally what the Bolsheviks and their international allies, through the Communist International, were all about. (I might add though that a later film about Ivan the Terrible had the same fine cinematic qualities and that was not particularly directed at the world’s working classes but to ancient Russian patriotic fervor.) That drawing of lessons about what happened during the strike is what drives the force of the film.

Here is how this one played out in all its glory and infamy. The workers at a Russian factory of unknown location and for that matter of unknown production had been beaten down by the greedy capitalists and stockholders, had had no say in what they made and how much dough they made. (The scenes with the greedy capitalists are a treasure, something out of any leftist’s caricature of the old time robber barons complete with fat bellies, cigars and top hats). Like any situation where tensions are strung out to the limit it did not take a lot to produce a reason for a strike for a better shake in this wicked old world. Here it was an honest workman’s being accused of a theft which he couldn’t defend himself against and so in shame he committed suicide. After have previously spent several weeks talking about taking an action to better their conditions the leaders of the underground “strike committee” decided to have everybody “down tools.” (The scene of this action with a rolling shutdown as section after section left their benches was breathtaking.)      

Of course in turn of the century (20th century) Russia (and elsewhere) the capitalists were as vicious as one would expect of a new class of exploiters dealing here with people, men and women, just off the farm and so in no mood to grant such things as an eight-hour day (a struggle that we in America are very familiar with from the Haymarket Martyrs whose chief demand a few decades before the time of this film was for that same eight hour day) and a big wage increase. So the committee of capitalists and their hangers-on gave a blanket “no.” Said the hell with you to the strikers.

The aftermath of this refusal is where the real lessons of this film are to drawn. Needless to say the capitalists were willing, more than willing to starve the workers into submission (the scenes of some workers pawning off their worldly possession for food for the kids, for themselves are quite moving).But not only were they willing to starve the mass of workers back to the factory but did everything in their power to break the strike by other means. First and foremost to send spies out to stir up trouble in order to get the class unity broken, then tried to get some weak-links to betray the movement from within, and if that didn’t work then try might and main to round up by any way possible the leaders of the strike in order to behead the movement. In the end though they were not above using their “Pharaohs,” their mounted cops and troops to suppress the whole thing. In the final scene after the cops and troops have done their murderous assaults on unarmed strikers the corpses spread out widely on the massacre field tell anybody who wasn’t sure about the role of the cops and troops all they need to know about the way the strike was defeated. 


From what I could gather from the last signboard (one which mentioned the Lena gold strike which was I believe was suppressed in 1912) the time period of this strike was between the 1905 revolution that went down in flames and the victorious revolution in 1917. The implications of the failure of the strike, of the need to take the state power, were thus through Eisenstein’s big lenses there for all to see. Hey, even if you don’t draw any political conclusions from this film just watch to see what they mean when they say a picture sometimes is worth a thousand words. Eisenstein has a thousand such pictures that will fascinate and repel you.  

The Hour Of The Wolf-With Mad Monk Bluesman Howlin’ Wolf In Mind

The Hour Of The Wolf-With Mad Monk Bluesman Howlin’ Wolf In Mind 




CD Review

By Zack James

Howlin’ Wolf, The Hour Of The Wolf,  

Jack Callahan made his old high school corner boy from in front of Jimmy Jack’s Diner in growing up town Riverdale west of Boston Seth Garth laugh one night when they were tossing down a couple of high shelf scotches, with water chasers after having just seen one James Montgomery, the famous blues harmonica player who had learned his trade at the feet of Little Walter and Junior Dean, perform at the Shell and prove once and for all that he still had “it.” That “it” not just some far-fetched idea that Seth had as an old-time music critic when he had first started out in journalism, started first when he was still in college throwing small pieces into the American Folk Gazette before he got his big break with The Eye in the days when guys like Trick Stearn and Bones Bennett made names for themselves and dragged the newspaper along with them before the big ebb tide of the 1970s washed away the glad tidings of the 1960s that everybody had pinned their hopes on.

No this “it” had some spunk, some substance to its core and Jack had gone along with Seth on this one. See one night Jack and Seth had gone to a Big Bill Bloom concert at the Garden and had come away angry, angry that they had spent their good money on expensive tickets when Big Bill could no longer carry a tune, Back in the day that had not mattered as much because the power of his lyrics carried the day. But that night he was not producing new lyrics, hadn’t done so in ages and was living off old time nostalgia from the AARP-worthy demographic that still followed him essentially uncritically. And the fools had clapped their hands off giving him yet another false life. Jesus. Seth had written a scathing article in the prestigious American Folk Review about the event and had hell rain down on him from the editor. (Old biddy editors he had called them. After that blast Seth resolved to check out as many of the old time folk and blues singers who were still standing to see if they still had “it” and let people know what was what (he did not bother to check out the old time rock and rollers that had started the great jail break-out of the 1950s since all that were left except Jerry Lee were one hit wonders who didn’t make the cut).       

So James Montgomery got his thumbs up. Funny some guys, guys like David Bromberg still had it, Jim Kweskin too but before he passed away Utah Phillips was doddering and the late Etta James was in different planet. Sad.

Now that you know the score, know what the old corner boys were up to we can get back to what Jack said that made Seth laugh. Simple. He just said, “You know as good as James is Howlin’ Wolf would have had him for lunch and had time for a nap.” And of course Seth had to agree. Agree for no other reason that he and Jack had been present in a little side room in Newport, at the big Folk Festival back in 1965 when the Wolf practically blew the walls of Jericho down when he played How Many More Years practically devouring the harmonica. Now the Wolf always claimed that he was not a drinking man (had taken the legendary country blues guys, guys like Son House, his “father,” to task for showing up drunk and giving the race a bad name) and wasn’t a dope fiend (his term one time when Seth interviewed him after he had come back from London after playing on an album with the Stones and Seth had joked that he probably had been stoned all the time and the Wolf looked at him with evil eyes like don’t go there sonny boy). But Seth was convinced that that whiff he smelled was not from some other workshop, the one with the white kids as Howlin’ Wolf put it. (Jim Kweskin and his jug band as it turned out which was entirely possible as well). But no way that a living breathing man, a big burly hunk of a man could put that much energy, that much air, that much bloody sweat (wringing out his handkerchief drawing torrents when he was done) without some “help.”     


So while Seth and Jack would never know for sure whether the Wolf man was high that famous Newport afternoon they knew one thing, one laugh making thing, the Wolf would have had James Montgomery for lunch. And James still had “it.”  So you can bet six two and even the Wolf had it at the end too. If you don’t believe Seth then listen to this CD and weep for your not having been there back in the day when the Wolf mopped up the blues floor, made his bones.   

On The Wild Side Of Life Minute-With Mister Jerry Jeff Walker’s Music In Mind

On The Wild Side Of Life Minute-With Mister Jerry Jeff Walker’s Music In Mind



CD Review

By Zack James   

Great Gonzos, Mister Jerry Jeff Walker,

The 1980s, the early 1980s, were a tough time to try and weather the financial doldrums of the alternative newspaper industry (much like today, in 2017, the whole print press and journal industry is going down with the ship in the digital age). That was the age of Ronald Reagan, a time when the night-takers took their revenge in big gobs, those bastards who almost got kicked in the ass for good back in the 1960s except we forget the first rule of a power struggle whether down on the corner boy block or in order to take state power-if you are going to take on the big guys you had better be ready to go all the way down and dirty or just back off. The blow-back for the past forty some years is graphic testament to that failure, to our defeat.  
As if to put paid to that night-taker “victory” those who would in earlier times have come through and supported such ventures as truth-teller alternative media took a dive, waved the white flag and fell into line (a straight and narrow line that even the latest polls have shown they never have backed away from, have passed on that “keeping their heads down” to their kids, hell, their grandkids, Jesus) the money dried up and the publication that Seth Garth had been the film critic for in good times and bad for over a decade The Eye had put him on short rations, had almost reduced him to the free-lancer status he had started out in the business doing. To alleviate their dilemma, maybe to draw one last breathe would have been a better way to put it Benny Gold the long time editor had begged Seth to take a long swig at the then emerging outlaw country music scene that was starting to bust out of Nashville, started getting up a head of steam in Texas, Austin, really and places like Colorado, Iowa and the like.   
Seth Garth, for those who don’t remember the name from when what he had to say about some song, album (tapes in those days really), or a performer carried weight via the distribution of The Eye on the coasts and with some strongholds in the center of the country too or were too young to know who he was could give, to use and expression from his corner boy days which he had really never given up, a rat’s ass about country music, the Nashville Grand Ole Opry stuff. Held his nose whenever anybody mentioned that George Jones had not shown up at a concert for the millionth time since he was in a drunken stupor out in Wyoming when he was supposed to be right there in Georgia or that Loretta Lynn, a coalminer’s daughter had the vapors or something and was a “no show” at one of her performances. Yeah Seth could give a rat’s ass about this incestuous country scene no question.

Moreover having just started the process of divorcing his third wife (three wives and a brood of kids, all young fueling up alimony, child support and future earnings college tuitions) he was in a sullen funk about starting all over like some rookie chasing ambulances and cop cars for a fucking story. Was trying, seriously trying, to decide whether he might link up with his old corner boy Johnny Blade who was now out of stir after doing a nickel for his last armed robbery and start pulling a few quick haul bank robberies. That larcenous heart of his that he had held in check for a number of years now was beginning to come to the fore. He after all was the guy back in the day who had perfected the “clip,” had designed the neighborhood midnight creep into Mayfair swell houses that kept the boys in clover through high school.

In the end though, at least for the public prints, Seth decided that he would give the outlaw country scene a quick run through to see if circulation would rise and The Eye would stop bleeding away financially. So he held his nose and headed to Austin (he refused to go to Nashville where some of the guys he was supposed to check out still had connections enough to draw work if the “outlaw” thing was running a little to the lean side). He first ran into a guy named Townes Van Zandt who was a true outlaw, could have given a fuck about Nashville and just wanted to write his lonesome life road lyrics, drown his sorrows in liquor and chase young honeys, the younger the better. But Townes with his downer lyrics, his lusts and his short-handed way of talking when he was not singing was not going to help Seth out of his miseries never mind a left-leaning newspaper in need of a big circulation jump.        

So he pushed on, had a nice interview with Willie Nelson but the guy was almost too big by then, hell, he was playing Northern venues to sell-out crowds, radio stations were ready to switch formats if they could get a hook from him. Same with Kris Kristofferson who was getting acting jobs as well as drinking the state of California dry. Then Big Bill Bloom who had made a career out of big bang folk lyrics that everybody in the 1960s was chewing on (or chewing on partially because while everybody knew maybe three verses of his stuff they could not go the distance on the whole song, half the time Seth couldn’t either and he wrote about the whole scene) called Seth to tell him that he had heard that The Eye was on the ropes (The Eye always gave Big Bill great build-up reviews although a couple of times Seth had nixed his work but Benny had nixed his nix) and that he was working the outlaw country racket. Did Seth know about a guy, Jerry Jeff Walker, who just then was out of jail but who was a great performer, wrote great lyrics and had a pal, a guy named Guy Clark, who wrote stuff for him too?            

Seth told Big Bill that he had never heard of the guy, was moreover worried about that “just out of jail” bit even if he was an outlaw but when Big Bill said he could make the connections Seth in desperation said he would go for it. And strangely enough they connected, connected when Seth was able to see that Jerry Jeff was just another larcenous corner boy except down Texas way and out West they called them good old boys instead of up North in growing up Riverdale. Seth was the guy who gave Jerry Jeff’s first concert out of jail a big play. Got him a connection to a big record producer and even got him his first gig north of the Mason-Dixon line. Got him into Harvard Square for crying out loud. The crowd almost all old folkies and raw college kids with dates went crazy for a real outlaw country singer. For a while, maybe a year, The Eye got by but the Reagan era was in deep throttle by then and once Jerry Jeff became old news everybody went back to keeping their heads down as the newspaper sank into its dreams. And Seth became once again a freaking free-lancer with no place to go but down.      


Wednesday, September 14, 2022

Bet, Bet Straight Up-With The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood Corner Boys In Mind

Bet, Bet Straight Up-With The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood Corner Boys In Mind

By Film Critic Emeritus Sam Lowell

[This little piece of fluff, this little boyhood remembrance had originally been written as my swan song as a film reviewer, as the film editor here. And to an extent that is /was true when I penned the stuff. That before the big internal struggle that roiled this publication for several months and which finally led to the purge and exile of Allan Jackson, long-time site manager and my oldest friend from high school days. “Purge” and “exile” no exaggeration although I don’t have time for the details here except that when the deal went down I voted with the rebel younger writers to give my old friend the boot under the idea that as with my own retirement it was time to “pass the torch.” I still think I was right and that although Allan and I have reconciled things probably better today under the new leadership. The part that is wrong though is that my swansong was premature. As part of the dust up the younger writers (and here I was neutral) insisted that new site manager Greg Green have an Editorial Board that he would run things by unlike the one-man rule of Allan Jackson. I was tagged for the chairmanship of the Board and so since I am still around I have decided on occasion as here that a few pithy words might come from my pen. S.L]


As everybody familiar with this space knows (or with the on-line version of the American Film Gazette )I have retired from the day to day grind of writing film reviews and have handed over that chore, at least temporary, to my in the not too distance future retiring old friend, colleague and competitor Sandy Salmon. I noted when I posted my retirement notice that I, like old time military men, would just fade away. I also noted that I would as the occasion warranted write a little something, a little commentary if the subject interested me. That is my purpose today.        

Recently Sandy Salmon reviewed a 1947 film, a murder mystery of sorts that had a long prior pedigree, Seven Keys To Baldpate, which had been based on a play by the same name back in the early 20th century which in turn was based on a crime novel by the great crime writer Earl Derr Biggers (whose popular Charlie Chan series is perhaps much better known). Sandy did a good job of reviewing this film which hinged on the idea of a guy, a crime writer, making a bet with his publisher for five thousand cash that he could write a crackerjack mystery novel in twenty-four hours. As he attempted to do such out in the boondocks at an allegedly closed down inn with the only key to the place all hell broke loose, a couple of off-hand murders and such, by people who had collectively mysteriously come up with the six other keys of the title. One of those six people was a ringer, was the good-looking blonde with well-turned legs secretary to the guy who the crime writer made the bet with. No, not a sex lure like would be included in such a plotline now, at least not publicly, not in 1947 but to distract him anyway she could to make him miss his deadline. What the hell that ain’t fair, no way, especially when after the smoke cleared and the crime writer solved the whole mystery of why the other five people were there she flopped herself on his lap when he went to write that story to win the bet and dared him to ignore her. Needless to say the other guy won the bet        

Sandy mentioned at the start of his review that some guys will bet on anything, any proposition to pass the time. That got me to thinking after I had read the review about what the deal was in the old days in my growing up hometown of North Adamsville about forty miles west of Boston when me and my high school corner boys who hung around Sal’s Pizza Parlor would to while away the lonesome, girl-less, no dough, no serious dough to not be girl-less bet on all kinds of propositions for a couple of bucks, maximum five probably. Certainly not five thousand which as Sandy mentioned is nothing but walking around money now but then was a number which we could not get around, couldn’t believe existed, not in our neighborhood where rubbing nickels together was a tough enough battle.

Now a lot of the bets with guys like Sammy Young, Billy Riley, Jack Callahan the great school football player before Chrissie McNamara did her own flop down on his lap and dared him to move her which he had had absolutely no inclination to do, Sid Green, Pat Murphy and Ian Smith were on the outcome of various sports events. You know back in those days whether the hapless Red Sox would finish last in the American League (or how long a losing streak the team would go on once they started their inevitable losing), how many points would the golden age Celtics score (or allow). We also did our fair share of betting on football games, no so much the games themselves as each play, pass or run, stuff like that, which sounds exotic but except for one time when I got on a bad streak and lose twenty-two bucks which took me about six weeks of caddying for the Mayfair swells to pay was usually the difference of two or three dollars.         

Other bets were a bit racier. Like whether Sally, who was going out with Pat, would let him “touch” her, and you know what I mean and don’t ask how we verified such bets but just know that we did do so. Or whether such and such a girl, a hot girl usually, would take the bait and give one of us a date. Hell, sometimes when the girls came into Sal’s to have some pizza, Cokes and to play the great jukebox that he had over in the corner we would bet on what song a girl would play. There was a certain art to that proposition for instance if a girl had just broken up with her boyfriend there would likely be some slow sad song chosen. You get what I mean. Sometimes it would be whether the notoriously late local bus would arrive on time or not. So anything was up for betting purposes.          
         
That ringer secretary in the film though got me thinking about the strangest bet I ever made back then, maybe ever. One Friday night, another one of those girl-less ones, Jack Callahan, this is before fetching Chrissie McNamara snagged him, bet me on how high Sal would toss the pizza dough when he was kneading and stretching it to make his great pizza pies. Jack’s idea for calling the bet, mine too for taking it, was that one of us but not both could have enough kale for a date with Laura Lawrence on Saturday night. We were both interested in her and she liked us both well enough although Jack as the football hero probably had the edge aside from the money factor. So the bet was on. Oh, I forgot to tell you that if one of the corner boys made a proposition the other guy (or guys depending on the nature of the bet) had to take the bet, or lose and pay up anyway. So naturally I said “bet.”      

The time of the bet was probably about seven o’clock so we had to wait a bit for Sal to start making more pizzas for the crowd that would be coming in around eight or so for their slice and soda before heading to some date or to the local lovers’ lane. Sal did eventually get going, maybe a half an hour later. The idea for who would win any individual bet on the toss was whether Sal flipped the dough above or below the Coke sign directly behind him. I got to call the first bet. Low. I won and the race was on taking my shots at high or low. I did pretty well for a while, was up maybe seven or eight dollars which would be enough to take Laura out, maybe a movie and something to eat. I figured I was in. Then my luck began to change, change dramatically and before long I was down about ten bucks before Sal stopped tossing the goddam stuff.

Jack smiled a knowing smile, knowing that he was going to escort Laura around and maybe get to “touch” her and you know what I mean by that and I don’t have to spell it out. Here’s where everything about that film review by Sandy comes into play. Sal was the ringer. Remember Jack was a football hero and Sal loved football, loved Jack’s prowess on the field and Jack had told him the situation earlier in the day before I showed up there. They had planned to let me win early to draw me in and had set up a silent signal about which position I had taken. How about that. Don’t you think now that I am thinking about it and getting burned up all over again that the next time I go over to Jack and Chrissie’s house in Hingham that I should ask for that ten bucks back-with interest. Yeah, Sandy had it right some guys will bet on anything.             

You Can’t Always Get What You Want -A Devil’s Bargain-With Bette Davis’ “All About Eve” In Mind

You Can’t Always Get What You Want -A Devil’s Bargain-With Bette Davis’ “All About Eve” In Mind



By Sandy Salmon

[When I first took on this assignment which was in an unusual case assigned to me by the Editorial Board and specifically from its chair Sam Lowell (whom in the interest of transparency I knew in the old days when we were both stringers at American Film Gazette) rather than directly from site manager Greg Green there was talk around the water cooler that this piece would really be autobiographical. That is emphatically not the case.

To give a little biography in high school in Newark, New Jersey I developed a very strong interest in art, in being an artist. That interest was nurtured and inflamed by Mr. Jones-Henry a transplanted Englishman whose roots included some now forgotten connection with the artist Burne-Jones. He was an alumnus of the Massachusetts School of Art in Boston and had assured me that I could get into that school on his recommendation and that the all important question of scholarship money would also be forthcoming since he had some connections in the Financial Affairs Office.     

As is hopefully clear from this vantage point I did not pursue that route, although some fifty years later I, at times, wish I had gone the “starving artist” in the Soho garret route. What happened to block me from going to art school was a very determined mother who feared unto the high heavens that I would stay down in the mud, stay poor for the rest of my life if I became a struggling artist. That factor was important to her since I was the one child in the family who looked like he (or she) would get out from under the grinding factory worker history of our extended family with its periods of unemployment and always, always, wanting habits for stuff we did not have, would never have. Although I was not as frantic as her about my future success that tipped the scales away from art school. But as can also hopefully be seen from this vantage point I did not become a civil servant which was my mother’s, and not only my mother’s, idea of success.      

I eventually came to this publication though through a connection with art so maybe I am sanctified. Back in the early 1970s while in college I got involved with an alternative newspaper, The East Coast Eye, which carried many articles and such that mainline newspapers wouldn’t or didn’t touch. I became something like the art reporter for the publication although unpaid as most of us were. That in turn after I graduated got me a job as a stringer for American Film Gazette (where I met Sam) doing all kinds of assignments including reviewing films a subject I hadn’t previously touched. I eventually became film editor there before my retirement, or rather before I was lured over to this publication as a half-way house to retirement once Sam persuaded me to finish my career on what he called a high note. Still some days, some pencil in hand doodling days during conferences, I wish I had chosen another road like old Robert Frost said in his famous poem. S.S]       

Confession: I, Jeffery Jaspers, had never wanted to be a film critic, or any kind of critic at all. What I wanted, what I dreamed of from an early age, maybe ten or eleven, after seeing a stage production of The Wizard Of Oz was to be an actor, a stage actor the only kind. To be on the Great White Way, on Broadway in New York City far away from my Cannon’s Bend, Pennsylvania roots. They say that politicians, successful politicians have made a devil’s bargain to get where they are, to gain power over people and projects but that profession is not the only one where individuals willingly consort with the devil, gladly, make their bargain for fame and a little stardom. I was willing to strike such a bargain to gain the bright lights but I never got that far, never got to go mano y mano with Satan for my soul against earthy paradise. Instead I have labored in the field of film criticism as something like the booby prize since I shared, still shared, what used to be called the legitimate theater’s, Broadway’s disdain for cinematic and television actors (to speak nothing of the contempt for huckster actors shilling for some godawful commercial products). I have never gotten over my failure to smell the sawdust and dabble with the greasepaint.             

There is a story behind this failure, a failure that I had some what suppressed for many years or so I thought until I did a recent re-watching, no, re-re-watching of a DVD of the classic inside Broadway film All About Eve starring Bette Davis, Anne Bancroft, George Sanders and a host of other very fine performers. When I was a senior in highs school I grabbed the lead in the senior year play Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I was so thrilled to get the Hamlet role that I asked my mother, nee Harriet DeWitt, to ask her uncle to come to the play and see if I had any serious acting ability. (Of course I thought I did and that uncle would only confirm such truths.)

See my granduncle was none other than the famous Broadway theater critic Addison DeWitt. For those who don’t remember that name for many years before he died about twenty years ago he was the critic for the Broadway Call. More importantly by that time he had been syndicated in most of the major newspapers in the country so that what Addison DeWitt had to say about a play carried much weight for anybody coming to Broadway or viewing an on-the-road production of such plays. If he left during the first act to relieve himself in the men’s room (really to have a cigarette for he was a serious chain-smoker in an age when such practices were considered manly and cool) the play would probably close that night. Although not before he had raked the dead thing over the coals for the next five days to make sure it never arose from that death spiral. If he liked a play or an actor, actress really, then he would smother with praise. As I will mention shortly there were ways, non- theatrical ways, to get that praise beyond honest work. He really was a Class A scoundrel.

So one Friday night he came up from New York (he dearly loved my mother, or maybe better, his sister and through her my mother) to see the production. Although he sat through the production I could see that he was fidgety, that he kept taking his cigarette case out and looked at it longingly. I think in retrospect I was only saved by the “no smoking” rule on school property. That and maybe an extra size devotion to my mother one of the few people he was kind to without regard to interest. Now that I have mentioned that tell-tale cigarette signal I don’t have to explain that he put two thumbs down on my acting career that night. Said I should be an English major since my mother (who secretly did not want me on the stage and had asked him once she knew he had panned me to plug that English major idea) had asked him to help along that path. Strangely he would be the person who got me my job at the American Film Gazette through some connections he had developed over the years although his contempt for film actors (and later television actors) was even greater than mine in those days.

The strange part of his part in my career is that when Broadway had gone through one of its down cycles (due to those films and television and later the cost of production and lack of deep pockets investors who were going elsewhere) he had actually been forced to get a second job at the Gazette where he bombed. Had on a whim I think or maybe as I found out more about the way he operated later, that non-theatrical way to get his attention something more he had touted the film To Tell No Lie when every other critic had deep six panned it. Had, and here is my non-theatrical speculation at play, touted Lola Moran as the greatest actress since Sarah Bernhardt. She was never heard again after that disaster and Uncle Addison probably moved onto the next best thing.            
                    
That school play night though he not only gave me my acting career walking papers but tried to put things in perspective- that was his word. Gave me a very long talk about having to make a devil’s bargain to get those stars beside your name on your dressing room door. He sensed I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t hungry enough like he had been. He told me straight up that he had made his own devil’s pact and that was only so that he would be the number one theater critic. Had gladly done it. Then he proceeded to give me what I later realized, much later, was a cautionary tale. That was the night he told me about how he had ridden Eve Harrington’s talent to solidify his positon in the Great White Way. I had heard of Eve Harrington vaguely when I was researching and reading plays in high school and had remembered that she had lit up Broadway with her performance as Cora in I Remember The Night according to the liner notes after each play and the chronology of who performed various parts over time in the productions.     

Uncle Addison had a gleam in his eye when he mentioned her name that first time and made me think maybe he loved her, something like that. I was probably wrong, and it doesn’t change the story but here goes. Margo, yes, Margo no last name needed in the old days, in the 1940s, when her star flamed white hot on the Great White Way, but now Margo Channing for readers who are rightly clueless about who I am talking about, was truly the queen bee of Broadway with a series of hits beginning with her breakthrough role as the young ingénue in You Reap What You Sow. Like every other profession worth fighting over for number one status the contenders came early and often. Most fell down, went back to the small town or out of town theater circuit but some and Eve, Eve no last name needed in the old days when her star flamed white hot on the Great White Way, but now Eve Harrington for readers who are rightly clueless about who I am talking about did not, did give Margo one hell of a battle.         

Such rises and falls do not occur all at once or by happenstance as Uncle Addison would be the first to tell you. Tell you that a very well-placed critic or producer can pave your way with his favors for your favors (then women mostly for men but today who knows with all the possible sexual preferences abound in the land). What Uncle Addison failed to tell me, would fail to tell anybody especially those impressible ingenues blinded by the bright lights is that some actors will harness their own energies to step more quickly up the food chain. That may have been Margo although my uncle never mentioned her roots since he had not made her a star as he did with Eve but it defined Eve to a tee. From the minute she entered Margo’s life, as a dresser at first and go-fer too, every move she made was to both undermine Margo’s theater reputation-and her personal life including throwing herself at Margo’s well-known director writer fiancé. This was a no holes- barred metaphorical fistfight to the death with plenty of barbs and trickery and while Margo held her own for a while the new blood Eve rose to the top based on talent and talons.

That is the public story but Uncle Addison gave me the back story now that both Margo and Eve have passed. Eve, on her way up, had planned to take a well-known Broadway writer away from his wife but he cut Eve short. Eve had created, as many have for lesser reasons, a whole sob story previous life which was all fairy tale. After failing to lure Margo’s fiancé away from her she went after that married writer who was smitten by her. Uncle had found out the real shady story behind Eve’s façade and used that to keep her back from the writer and all for himself. (When I asked if Eve had gone to bed with him Uncle demurred but that meant to me that he had). Here is where things got weird though. Since fame is fleeing I asked Addison what happened to Eve whom like I said before I had never really heard of. He told a very chilling tale about how a young wannabe actor in her turn befriended Eve and would go on to undermine Eve and rise to the top herself. Since she is still alive Uncle would not give her name but from his look I knew too that he had something to do with her rise-and her bedding by him too.