CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE STUMBLED INTO "THE SHALLOW ZONE." WATCH OUT FOR THE ROCKS. SOME OF THEM ARE SHARP.
If you're looking for a blog with meaningful content on the important issues of the day, you've come to the wrong place. This is the shallows, my friend. Nothing but shallowness as far as the eye can see. Let someone else make sense of things. I like it here.

About Me

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I love my grown children, miss all the dogs I ever had, and I cry at the drop of a hat, I believe in true love, destiny, fairness, and compassion. If I could be anywhere right now, it would be the ocean. My favorite city is New York, but I am always longing for London and craving more time in Copenhagen. I'm drawn to desolate places, deserted buildings, and unknown byways. I don't care how society perceives me as long as my gut tells me that what I'm doing is right. I am interested in paranormal things, spiritual things, historical things, and things that glow at night. I like to drink, I smoke when I write, I can't stand small talk, and despite my quick temper, I would rather kiss than fight. I'm selfish with my writing time, a spendthrift with my love. My heart has been broken so many times that it's held together with super glue and duct tape. The upside is that, next time, I won't be tempted to give away what I no longer have to give. But I will let you buy me a Pink Squirrel.
MY SHALLOW MISSION STATEMENT

MY SHALLOW MISSION STATEMENT

MY SHALLOW MISSION STATEMENT
Not that there's any weight to it...
IN A WORLD FILLED WITH COMPLEX POLITICAL ISSUES, SOCIAL INEQUALITY, AND FINANCIAL UNCERTAINTY, I CONSIDER IT MY GIFT TO YOU, MY READER, TO OFFER THIS SHALLOW LITTLE HAVEN, WHERE NOTHING IS TOO SHALLOW, TOO INSIGNIFICANT, OR TOO RIDICULOUS TO JUSTIFY OUR ATTENTION. IN OTHER WORDS, IF IT'S NOT IMPORTANT....SO WHAT? NEITHER WAS MARILYN MONROE'S BRA SIZE. AND THAT STILL SELLS MAGAZINES, DOESN'T IT?
VIDEO OF THE MONTH

Sunday, February 10, 2013

HOW TO STEAL A MILLION...AND LOOK AMAZING DOING IT



Okay, so there we were last night, my friend, Belinda Blindsider (sorry, that's the name she wants me to use) and I, lying in bed with her Weimaraner, Lulu sprawled out between us, trying to decide on a movie to watch. After all, there are worse ways to spend a Saturday night after a killer snowstorm like Nemo has just left a calling card consisting of waist-high snow all over the driveway and on the street. Adding to our late night comfort was the fact that we had an excess of vodka at our disposal. So why not top off the day with a good movie as the clock hands ticked away into the wee hours of Sunday morning? The problem was....I wanted to revisit some of my favorite film noir flicks and Belinda wanted...as usual....to watch something "fun". As she clicked on the instant queue choices on Netflix...

"Film noir is fun," I insisted. "Shadows and light, tough-talking broads and cigarette smoking men in fedoras....hell, it's like a carnival of carnage in glossy black and white."

"Then we'll save it for Morbid Monday Movie Night," Belinda replied, always quick with the quip (she'd be great writing dialogue for a film noir screenplay). "But, tonight, I want color and light-hearted frothiness."

"Fine," I conceded, knowing the battle was already lost. "So, what frothy movie are we gonna watch?"

"How about this?" she asked, clicking the remote once again.

The title she had clicked on was "How To Steal A Million", a 1966 rom-com "thriller" starring Audrey Hepburn and Peter O'Toole. Now, don't get me wrong. I like Audrey Hepburn just fine, and Peter O'Toole was, before the ravages of age and excessive alcohol consumption set in, pretty much one of the most gorgeous leading men to ever turn a pair of blue eyes toward a camera lens. But apart from its stars, "How To Steal A Million" is one of those mid-1960s films that can best be described as "claptrap"---a movie that seems to have been made solely because someone decided it was a good idea to make a movie and populate it with stunningly beautiful people driving fancy cars in trendy cities ("Million" takes place in Paris) despite the fact that the plot is skimpy and full of holes and the dialogue is hackneyed and totally predictable. But Belinda was adamnant, and I was tired, and so we went ahead and watched it. I won't bore you with the details of the storyline, which involves art forgery and the dilemma that ensues for Audrey Hepburn's character and that of her father, played by bug-eyed Salvidore Dali look-alike Charles Boyer. But I will tell you that, a couple of frames into the movie, all of my disparaging thoughts disappeared as I got a gander at what would turn out to be the first of a seemingly endless succession of wardrobe changes sported by the effervescent and exceedingly gamine Miss Hepburn.


From the moment she drives up to her mansion in a 1965 red convertible Autobianchi Eden Roc (I know nothing about cars, but I looked it up) dressed in a little white frock with matching jockey style hat and go-go boots til the final frame in which she and Peter O'Toole share their final ultra-wet smooch, Audrey Hepburn traipses from scene to scene as though commanding her own personal catwalk. In a word, what this movie lacks in plot and dialogue, it more than makes up for with its mid-1960s "mod" fashion sense. The black cocktail dress and cigarette holder Hepburn made famous in "Breakfast At Tiffany's" might be the "look" with which most people associate the actress, but, man, could she rock a pair of go-go boots! Of course, as with the Autobianchi, it wasn't until I hit the internet that I learned the clothes she wears in the film were all designed by Hubert de Givenchy, who also designed her wardrobe for "Sabrina", which she had made nine years before, after "Roman Holiday." Both were far better films, of course, but as far as clothes are concerned, "How To Steal A Million" has to be Givenchy's piece de resistance and no doubt left the female members of its original audience drooling with envy over the sight of its star entering a room in a yellow chiffon two piece only to reappear attired in a black lace dress, black lace "mask", and black textured stockings and black leather pumps in the next scene.


In fact, it was that black lace outfit that sent Belinda and me completely over the edge. As the camera went in for a close up of Audrey Hepburn's face behind the black lace mask, she batted her eyes at Peter O'Toole, giving us our first look at the silver eye shadow she's wearing. Silver eye shadow! How mid-1960's! Without the lace mask, it might have been too much...even garish...but muted by delicate black lace, it comes off as glamorous and exotic.


"Is it possible to pull off silver eye shadow in real life?" I wondered out loud.

"If we got botox, maybe," Belinda said.

We probably won't, of course. Still, watching the movie was an unexpected stroll down a frothy byway that left us surprisingly nostalgic for the days when the sight of a movie star in a yellow chiffon two piece and silver eye shadow was enough to make you forget your own troublesome existance for an hour or two. Of course, in every day life, even back in the mid-1960's, most real women didn't dress like Audrey Hepburn or pull off an art heist with someone like Peter O'Toole. But it's comforting to recall what it was like to imagine that they could...and that we could as well.


Belinda didn't make it to the end of the movie. She fell asleep, her dog, Lulu still wedged between us, and, as the credits rolled, I turned off the light and joined them in slumber. And when we awoke this morning, we slid into jeans and T-shirts just as we had yesterday morning. But I can still taste a little bit of frothy chiffon at the back of my throat. And even though the next movie I watch on a Saturday night will probably be dark and gritty and filled with hard-boiled dialogue, I have to admit that I wouldn't be adverse to putting on some silver eye shadow and taking a ride in a little red Autobianchi Eden Roc sometime...just like Audrey Hepburn. But no art heists. I'm way too old for that.


Skol!

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