Monday Monologue: "We blew it, Caitlin"

Hello, all! Kurt Osenlund here from Your Movie Buddy, making my inaugural contribution to The Film Experience while Nathaniel explores the (very) wet and (sorta) wild country of Iceland (having paid a visit myself in March, I can safely say he is having one unique vacay).

After scouring the countless monologues filed away in my memory, I settled on Peter Sarsgaard’s climactic outburst in Shattered Glass, the supremely watchable journalism drama from writer/director Billy Ray. Released in 2003, it's the movie that kick-started my undying affection for Sarsgaard, and I know I'm not alone in that regaard (I certainly wasn't alone while heavily sighing after Sigourney Weaver didn't announce his name on Oscar nomination morning). Sarsgaard was solid in Boys Don’t Cry, but that film certainly didn’t offer the scene-stealing showmanship he wields so effortlessly as The New Republic’s conscientious office-bad-guy, editor Chuck Lane.

Having watched Shattered over and over, I specifically relish the moment Chuck finally blows his top when confronted by colleague Caitlin (Boys costar Chloe Sevigny), who, like the rest of his staff, has been bewitched by charming, delusional story-spinner Stephen Glass (Hayden Christensen).

I once recited this passage for an assignment in an acting class. Naturally, I just couldn’t match Sarsgaard’s precisely controlled intensity:

“Caitlin, when this thing blows, there isn't even gonna be a magazine anymore. If you wanna make this about Mike, make it about Mike, I don't give sh*t. You can resent me, you can hate me, but come Monday morning, we're all gonna have to answer for what we let happen here. We're all gonna have an apology to make. Jesus Christ, don't you have any idea how much sh*t we're about to eat?!? Every competitor we ever took a shot at, they're gonna pounce, and they should. Because we blew it, Caitlin. He handed us fiction after fiction, and we printed them all as fact. Just because we found him...entertaining. It's indefensible. Don't you know that?”

This speech comes just after a heated verbal volley between Chuck and Caitlin, beginning, of course, with Chuck’s cathartic eruption of, “I fired him!” and ending with a dig from Caitlin regarding the cuddly editor Chuck replaced (that would be “Mike”). Just one scene ago, Chuck was upstairs, leafing through back issues and scrutinizing Glass's phony articles, in a sequence briskly edited by Jeffrey Ford. It's the revelation Chuck needed to get people on his side, including the audience. Our patience with Stephen dwindles scene by scene, but before that point, we, too, are bewitched by him (despite all his sniveling). Though it requires some trust on the part of the viewer (it's not like Chuck's looking at concrete evidence), that confirmation of what Chuck already knew affords him a long-awaited release, and the chance to show he's really not the bad guy after all. As he drills some sense into Caitlin, our allegiances are definitively shifted.


Shattered misconceptions

I've been rooting for Sarsgaard ever since this performance, which did nab him a Golden Globe nod and recognition from the Indie Spirits, the NSFC, the OFCS and critics' groups in Boston, DC, Chicago, Kansas City, Toronto and San Francisco. I've been waiting patiently for him to once again be part of the awards season discussion (come on, Green Lantern!).

You might say this little Shattered monologue served as the crux of my devotion. Chuck won me over in the movie; Sarsgaard won me over for good. You?

"Mary, did you see The Omen?"

I'm multi-tasking! It's a new episode of actors on actors, tv @ the movies and a monologue.

Recently after an accidental couch potato binge on The Golden Girls -- you all know what that's like, right? -- I realized that the boyfriend had never seen the classic 70s sitcom Soap, which is from the same creative team, so we've been watching. The main character is rich dotty matriarch Jessica Tate (Katherine Helmond of Whos The Boss fame). She brings up movies and movie stars constantly. The fantasy of movies is a natural fit, since she doesn't have the firmest grasp of reality. She's basically a template for Rose on Golden Girls. Helmond, like White after her, has a very firm grasp of comic timing.

In this scene she wants to look through a family photo album because she believes they've all been cursed.

Jessica Tate: I think that in those pictures we'll find the answer. Mary did you see The Omen? Well, I mean nobody believed Lee Remick when she said that her son was the devil and he was trying to kill her and you know what happened? He killed her. And then, I mean, of course everyone said 'well, she was right' but it did her a lot of good, she was dead by then.

Ha. It's much funnier with Helmond's loopy train of thought speed delivery.

Have you ever gotten into an entertainment mood that you couldn't quite shake? See I've been in this broad yuks mood for like a month now. It's not a normal mood for me. I think it started when I caught the Off Broadway Hitchcock spoof The 39 Steps a few months back which had a lot of inspired slapstick. Recently this mood was reignited watching Mel Brooks Silent Movie (1976) on BluRay (from this terrific box set that). Lets just say I hurt from laughing... especially during Bernadette Peters repeat vavavoom number. Her hip swivels just knock audiences right over. Literally.

The success of any comedy is so dependent on your mood, isn't it?

Anyway, back to Emmy-winning Helmond. Here's another actressy bit when Jessica is accused of the murder of her young lover. Her husband promises her they'll get the best lawyer. "But what about that movie?!" she pleads confusing him, and she's off in her own world again. Instead of worrying about the trial she's worried about who will play her in the movie version she's certain they'll make.

Jessica: Promise me that you'll try to maintain some control. Because I just have a feeling -- I just have this awful feeling that they're thinking of having Shelley Winters play me! See I was thinking of someone like Catherine Deneuve --she's attractive enough. Or it could make a wonderful musical. Barbra Streisand could play me.

 

Shelley Winters, for those of you who are only familiar, was briefly a starlet and then an Oscar bait actress but as early as the 60s she had moved into her late period blowsy mouthy dame mode. She wasn't exactly an emblem of "class" in the movies.

If you were ever on trial for murder, would you worry about who would play you in the movie? 
*
*

Monologue: Kate's Heavy Dinner

It's actually difficult to find items for the monologue series. Screenwriters generally favor single sentence utterances and the ole trusty shot / reverse shot conversations, leaving the bulk of monologue-writing to the playwrights. But watching Alice Adams (1935), now celebrating its 75th birthday, it's easy to think of virtually every scene as a Katharine Hepburn monologue. Occasionally her co-stars will start a sentence in response but Kate as Alice rarely lets them finish a thought. She spends the whole movie jabbering away as if she's the only character.

Hepburn and MacMurray in Best Picture nominee Alice Adams (1935)

In her defence, this is generally because she's nervous, not from lack of interest in her partners. This is never more true than in her romantic scenes with Fred MacMurray. He's Arthur Russell, a young man of some bank whom Alice is desperate to win. (In the emotional logic of the movies, this is not heartless social climbing or gold digging so much as a girl who just wants to be happy. And therefore deserves the man above her social station.) One of the peculiar charms of the movie and of Kate & Fred's scenes together is that Alice is so busy trying to impress him that she never notices her own success; He's besotted from the start.

In their first lengthy scene together, he walks her home and she lies embellishes all of her truths to prove her social worth. She assumes he's already spoken for... but she can't help but try.

It eventually becomes clear, even to Alice, that this eligible bachelor is interested. Her parents finally talk her into having the prime catch over for dinner in a lengthy sequence that basically functions as the third act of the movie. I'm only excerpting a small piece of it here. Alice Adams was a big break for the young George Stevens in the director's chair and though the movie and central star turn are uneven this particular scene is truly a gem. Stevens is performing a difficult juggling act keeping socioeconomic satire, character arc drama, plot convergences and physical comedy all in the air simultaneously.

The unfortunate dinner is the sort where virtually everything goes wrong. The Adams have planned an elaborate meal made to impress but it's all wrong for the stifling heat, most of them don't understand what they're eating, everyone is sweating and the father can't remember the cook's name though they're pretending that she's their regular help. Alice even blames her in pretentious French though this isn't lost on the cook (Hattie McDaniel in fine comic form) who is struggling through the multi-course dinner herself.

While Hepburn sells nervous and rude chatter about the working classes (to which her character and family belongs) Stevens camera drifts away from her slyly following McDaniel around the table as she loses control of the service (the heat is getting to her, too).

Alice Adams: Father simply has to have a heavy meal at the end of the day. He works so hard in his terrible old factory -- terrible new factory I should say -- that he simply must have lots of food to keep his strength up. I don't see why most businessmen can't leave most of their details to their employees. But then I suppose some of them are like that. They just allow the help to sit around idle while they do all the work. Then of course there's the other type of businessman who simply drives his employees all the time and invents things for them to do if there's nothing else because he hates to see people idle.

Which category do you fall into Arthur? [She doesn't let him answer] I'm sure not the last. You're probably the idol of your office boys and secretaries.

The screenplay's use of homonyms there is delightful since any linguistic play delivered with Hepburn's vocals is welcome and it's also such a terrific point about the unspoken Alice Adams predicament; the Adams family is quite idle, really, and they spend the running time idolizing the wealthy.

Alice's father interjects, clearly excited about the notion of even having a secretary at all. Then Walter, the brother, enters and exits with some urgency (things are going very wrong offscreen as well) and takes the father with him.


At this point Hepburn lays on the charm offensive. Alice is flailing, searching for a way to salvage the already ruined evening, knowing that the ruse is broken.

Walter's such a funny boy -- so abrupt and unexpected. He-- oh, but then of course you know that about him. I guess all talented people are a bit peculiar. It's part of their charm, really. What are your talents Arthur? [She doesn't let him answer] Can you play any instrument or sing or paint? Or perhaps you have some secret hobby that derives its chief charm by just being secret, something you keep all to yourself and don't like to talk about.

Russell must know what Alice doesn't like to talk about by now, what she's kept all to herself in their conversations. There are more interruptions and the mother also leaves. We hear the family arguing from another room. It's now just the young would be lovers at the table. Alice eyes the man she loves and believes lost, tears welling in her eyes.

Penny for your thoughts? No, I'll bid more. A rose... a poor little dead rose for your thoughts, Russell.

Will you ever forgive us for making you eat such a heavy dinner? I mean look at such a heavy dinner because you certainly couldn't have more than looked at it on a night like this.

Adams rises to escort her sweating suitor out. Hepburn in an inspired decision, drops the fawning for something like subtextual anger at her own inferior standing that's gotten them both into this mess. There's something about the body language and the line readings that momentarily turns a little condescending... even through the heartbroken defeat. It'll shift to self pity in the next scene.

Cheer up. Your fearful duty is almost done and you can run on home as soon as you like. That's what you're dying to do isn't it?

Though it's never quite clear what this young heir believes or doesn't believe about the delusional information that's been constantly flowing from this eager girl's lips (the movie is always lacking for clarity when it comes to the idol classes) it's always clear that he'd like to kiss them. Running on home is not what he's dying to do at all. But Alice is always charging through these onesided conversations in unreality like an incongruously delicate bull in her own china shop.

How to stop her from breaking her own heart?
*

Beware Take Care Bela Beware

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

"And waste all this good coke?"

[Great Moments in Screen Bitchery #949, Demi in St. Elmo's Fire (1985)]

Heh. I am going to be very disappointed if that isn't the title of Demi Moore's forthcoming memoirs. I'm just saying.

Some context for those too young to have seen Demi's 80s breakthrough, released twenty-five years ago on this very day. Joel Schumacher's St. Elmo's Fire is a story about a group of college grads who are struggling through their quarter-century life crises together. Jules (Demi Moore) is the messiest (and most fabulous) of them all. In the middle of the night she calls her most responsible friend in a panic. "I'm with these Arabs and they've been forcing me to do coke all night. I'm not sure because I don't understand much Arabic but I think I heard the word gangbang. You've gotta come and get me!" He rushes to her rescue only to find a tame unthreatening party. She refuses to leave with him and starts making booty calls instead. He tries to reason with her, until she lobs that delicious dismissal his way.

"And waste all this good coke?"

I have loved Demi Moore ever since. Which was not always a wise life choice, but what can you do? We love the actresses we love.


Because I can't quit there -- this movie is so addictive -- a Monday Monologue from the same film.

Uptight Leslie (Ally Sheedy) and Frumpy Wendy (Mare Winningham) have convinced Wild Jules to eat lunch at the soup kitchen where Wendy volunteers. This is not, shall we say, Jules' natural environment. It turns out her girlfriend's have an intervention in mind. They're worried about her obsession with her stepmother and her crazy-making sexual dalliances.


"Moi?" Jules asks, caught off guard. After a quick silent beat with a flash of 'how to navigate this?' worry on her face, Demi unleashes Jule's defensive fabulousity posturing.

Forrester? Come on, he's wonderful.

Forrest is her married boss. But she's got it all figured out.

This is the 80s. Bop him for a few years. Get his job when he gets his hand caught in the vault. Become a legend. Do a Black Mink ad. Get caught in a sex scandal. Retire in massive disgrace. Write a huge best seller and become the fabulous host of my own talk show.

"Well, it was silly of us to worry," Wendy says in disbelief and the kind of snark-free sarcasm only found prior to the late Nineties.

It really is. He's helped me so much. He's come up with so many alternatives for my stepmonster's funeral.

It turns out cremation is just as expensive as the non torch method and if I don't come up with a cheaper solution, I'm going to end up a bag lady...

Of course I'll have alligator bags.

A head toss, the laugh of the self-amused and then a look at the time get me the hell out of here avoidance of the real issues she's just been so flippant about.

And she's outta there... and every time she's outta there the movie deflates a little. Demi's comedic skills are underrated and paired with that famously husky voice and needy screen energy, she turns out to be the perfect match for this charismatic trainwreck.

A parting shot just to underline Jules' trying-too-hard fabulousity -- this is her apartment.

Art Direction by William Sandell / Set Decoration by Robert Gould & Charles Graffeo

Naturally she's wild about her decorator "Gay became very chic in the Seventies!"
*

25th Anniversary: Jamie Lee Curtis is Perfect

this was supposed to be a reg'lar monday monologue but i got distracted

Put down that Activia and listen up. I accidentally saw Freaky Friday again (as funny as ever) so Jamie Lee Curtis was bouncing round in me brain. Long before Curtis was regulating the nation with great yogurt (What? It works.) she was already something of an icon of health & fitness.

Perfect in Pink

Her marvelous bod first got a ton of media attention in Trading Places (1983, t'was the boobs). Most famously, the blockbuster True Lies (1994) exploited her goods with that memorable striptease sequence.

And twenty-five years ago this very day, Perfect (1985) opened. This proved to be the most literal interpretation of her 'Let's Get Physical' career thread. She even had Olivia Newton-John hair. In the film she played Jessie, "the aerobics pied piper" at the Sports Erection... excuse me... Sports Connection that Rolling Stone reporter Adam (John Travolta) is about to crucify in a big condescending expose about health clubs as the new singles bars.

Jessie is too savvy to agree to be Adam's profile subject but too enamored of the cleft chin'ed one not to bed him. This leads to one of the most ridiculous pre-sex metaphorical banter ever heard on film (warm up = foreplay and, well, you get the picture from there) and an even more ridiculous post coital scene. After their lovemaking Travolta attends Curtis's slimnastics class and for an ENTIRE FIVE MINUTES (I'm not even exaggerating by one second) we watch them doing a sweaty intense pelvic gyration routine while making ooh and aah and youaresobadyousexything faces at each other. It's hideous!


Adding to the hilarity is the lyrics of the song that's playing. "Shock me til I can't sit up I can't sit down. Oh no... temperatures higher" -- which sounds like... well, the characters might want to hit the free health clinic after their sexworkout. [Sadly it's one of the movie's only moments that's so-bad-it's-good. The film is too inert and serious overall to have become a fondly remembered Bad Movie We Love.]

Late in the movie Jessie's worst fears are confirmed about Adam and what he intends to write. She sees this heinous article on his computer AND I MUST SHOW YOU THE COMPUTER BECAUSE OF THE CRUCIAL QUESTION OF WHAT IS IT???


I don't even understand what I'm looking at. It's like a desktop computer grafted onto the back of a laptop with some sort of stand/lift on the back. And giant yellow letters, only 16 lines of them, on the screen. To erase it -- which Jessie does in anger -- she has to backspace every line. There's not even a highlight/delete function.

This movie should be placed in the Smithsonian it tells you so much you'd forgotten about the 80s. For example, I had completely forgotten that "eat shit and die" was like an every-single-day insult between friends and that people said "sleaze" instead of skank, slut or ho.

For reasons only my late 80s self comprehends, I was very obsessed with Jamie Lee Curtis's line reading of "What's so wrong with wanting to be perfect?" It's the only thing I remembered about the movie in 2010 before looking at it again. Watching it now, it's still an emotional climax but it's more blah than I'd remembered. Like the rest of the movie. It's one of those "duh" and OOH... SPEAK YOUR THEMES TO ME *HOT* moments that I sometimes like to make fun of in modern movies. Anyway, before Jamie Lee has her would be famous speech, she calls John Travolta a bitch. Which is awesome. And very non 80s of her, I think. Then she lays into the bitch.

You talked to me about Emerson and Baby Boomers and Physical Great Awakening and all you do is write a fucking little piece about people getting into each other's pants.

He whines "But every thing I wrote is true."

It's not the truth I'm worried about, it's the tone... and hurting people and using them.


You're so disgusting. How can you be nice to somebody like McKenzie and then shit on Linda? What did she ever do to you or anybody else for that matter? Nothing! What's wrong with wanting to be the best that you can be? What's so wrong with wanting to be perfect? What's wrong with wanting to be loved?

You're going to ruin her life.

The her in question is Linda played by Laraine Newman. I remember this supporting role was kind of a big deal at the time because Newman was an SNL regular and she's pretty good in a dramatic role as the desperate workout fanatic and "sleaze".

Perfect has a terrible reputation but it's actually kind of interesting in a time capsule way even though, no, it's not particularly good. It's angsty take on journalistic ethics is fairly typical of movies but it's an eye opener to watch this and remember that working out regularly was once looked down on as a fad and there's also the constant and now shocking reminder that magazine articles use to have major cultural impact. The life of a writer was certainly different.

Jessie: How many articles do you write a year?
Adam: I dunno. Ten?

Many writers nowadays have to churn out several a day. Quality and depth of research have surely suffered in this content and pageview driven new world.

But I don't mean to be a draggy downer like the film. Despite it's glum mood, it's sort of adorkable anyway since it has forgotten 80s lingo, hilariously awful 80s music, memorable 80s people (Rolling Stone founder Jan Wenner in his chubby pre-coming out days plays a Rolling Stone editor, Carly Simon cameos, Marilu Henner!) and actual 80s fashions (rather than costumed designed interpretations) all the way from single girl party wear to stripper costumes to workout clothes. You even see what we now call "mom jeans" on hot young pieces like Jamie Lee. Even Jamie Lee can't make them work. She looks better naked.

It's like these three characters (a throuple) say in the film.

"The better your body looks the more you want to take off your clothes."

*
*
Have you ever tried aerobics? Which movie most screams "authentic 80s!" to you?

Further Reading?
Adam's "Signatures: Jamie Lee Curtis"
Susan's Top Ten Movie Hookers
JA's Top Ten Actress in a Horror Film Performancess

Monologue: A Friend of Dorothy's.

the monday monologue

Few movies are as delightful as Howard Hawks' Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953). It has everything: clever production numbers, great quips, beautiful stars, and a zippy plot. But mostly the film sparkles just by ogling the twin pleasures of Jane Russell & Marilyn Monroe. Russell and Monroe play best friends and musical partners, wisecracking Dorothy Shaw and golddigging Lorelei Lei, respectfully. One of the best sequences plays like an extended joke on the movie itself, riffing on both the musical numbers and the two star personae that director Howard Hawks has so expertly shined up for the audience.

Jane as Jane | Jane as Marilyn

Toward the end of the film, there's a misunderstanding over jewelry that gets Lorelei (Monroe) in hot water. A tiara has reportedly been stolen and everyone thinks Lorelei is the culprit. Well, her eyes do flash at the mention of diamonds. Dorothy (Russell) attempts to buy her friend some time by impersonating her at a court hearing about the absent jewelry.

At first Dorothy isn't sure she's sold the Lorelei illusion. Jane fusses comically at her blonde wig, over selling the Monroeisms for the back row. The next time she's worried that the illusion is breaking she razzles and dazzles the courtroom to utter distraction with a coarser version of the number we just saw the real Lorelei perform "Diamonds Are a Girl Best Friend."

Just when it seems clear that Dorothy's (and therefore Jane's) approximation of Lorelei's (and therefore Marilyn's) 's breathless 'who me?' dumb blonde act has worked its trick, Dorothy's new boyfriend Ernie Malone (Elliot Reid) charges into the courtroom threatening to give the game away. Dorothy as "Lorelei" acts quickly to protect Lorelei and regain control of "Dorothy"'s man.

Your honor before he talks could I explain something?

Well, I have a friend named Dorothy and she's a really good friend. And Dorothy knows that I would never do anything that was really wrong.

It's a real kick to hear Russell comically mimic Monroe's line readings while playing her own romantic story arc.

There's a certain young man that Dorothy likes. In fact, she's very fond of him.

And Dorothy would never speak to this man again if he ever did anything to hurt me, Lorelei. So I think this young man had just better know that... well... well...

Dorothy thinks she's in love with him!

On this last line reading, Russell amusingly dumps Monroe's naive girliness for her own jaded womanliness. Dorothy's suitor is naturally delighted at this admission of love, even though she's underlined it as comic exasperation.

Needless to say Mr. Malone supports Dorothy's courtroom ruse and saves the day.

Jane's faux-Marilyn scene comes shortly after Marilyn's legendary "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" showcase. It's tempting to view this from a modern perspective -- "Diamonds" is the film's great legacy having been referenced countless times in pop culture since -- and assume that any performer would be hard pressed to follow that showstopper and mock it in the very next setpiece. But Jane Russell, a formidable star, doesn't sweat it. In fact, she appears to be having a complete ball. She sure had a pair.


The courtroom imposter scene isn't as famous as the musical numbers but it's as priceless as any missing tiara. All things considered it's Russell, top billed, who may be best in show. In the case of this 1953 classic, this gentleman prefers brunettes.

Share
*

Monologue: Michelle's Miracle Glue

Have we ever talked about Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion?

"I love it." "unh! Me, too."

So rewatchable, don't you think? Most of the laughs spring from the stupidly succinct sycophantic banter between Romy (Mira Sorvino) and Michelle (Lisa Kudrow). They've been inseparable for over a decade but somehow they're still surprised by every shared feeling.

Romy: Oh my god I hate throwing up in public.
Michelle: Me too!

One scene that always cracks me up comes right after the best friends have had a rare fight on the way to their high school reunion. They've concocted a lame "business women" story that they invented post-it notes in order to impress their hateful former classmates.

But since they split up on the way to the reunion, they're both trying to use the same story. Michelle, already flailing in her attempt to impress the four bitches who made their high school years miserable, rethinks her story as she notices Romy telling the same one. She adjusts.

Actually I invented a special kind of glue.

The ringleader of this Arizona-division Heathers wants to catch Michelle in the lie "Oh really? Well then I'm sure you wouldn't mind giving us a detailed account of exactly how you concocted this miracle glue, would you?"

No.

Kudrow takes a hilarious frozen pause. Her comedic timing has always been superb. The way she enhances the comedy can really only be seen and heard. She's working within Michelle's very limited register and it's all very slight eye flashes and movements. There's also the occassional escaping unh sound which, in Kudrow's comic arsenal, is both the aural equivalent of an eyeroll and a nervous tic.

Well. Ordinarily when you make glue... first, you need to thermoset your resin. And then after it cools, you mix in an epoxide which is really just a fancy-schmancy name for any simple oxygenated adhesive, right?

Her confidence growing in the telling, which surprises even her, Kudrow's line readings begin to shift from wobbly recitation to educational sass.

And then I thought maybe just maybe you could raise the viscosity by adding a complex glucose derivative during the emulsification process.

And it turns out I was right.

The scene is already a good joke in concept. You've got scientific formulas tumbling out of the mouth of a ditzy blonde character (whose still very much in character). In the execution it's even better. Kudrow as Michelle doesn't even seem to know whether she's making this up on the spot or remembering it.

The punchline to her science lesson is sweet revenge. There's a shot of the queen bees in stunned silence. "I don't believe it. You must be the most successful person in our class."

Uh huh. And you're not. Bye!

There she goes. A business woman... 'From L.A.'

Share
*
*
recommended further reading: Adam's wonderful "Signatures: Lisa Kudrow"
*

Monologue: Diane Keaton is Looking For Mr. Goodbar

Monday Monologue

When people think about Diane Keaton in the 70s, there are probably a couple of stray thoughts for The Godfather but 8 times out of 10 they're thinking of Annie Hall (1977). The same year that she entered the cinematic pantheon as that neurotic androgynous fashion plate, she nailed another role: the grade school teacher with a dirty mind in Looking For Mr. Goodbar.


When we first meet Theresa, a professor (Alan Feinstein) is reading her personal paper about "confession" aloud while she fantasizes about having sex with him. Later that evening she's at his apartment grading his papers and he praises her for her understanding of syntax and grammar. Not exactly what she had in mind when she took the T.A. job. Theresa was thinking of something along the lines of T & A.


He asks if she's in pain (she has a bad back), and she responds, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Nothing about you is obvious..." he answers in what might qualify as the most perceptive thing anyone will ever say to Diane Keaton in a movie not directed by Woody Allen.

But what is wrong with Theresa's back? The question annoys her since the professor is holding her when he asks it, but his embrace isn't the carnal one she'd prefer. She backs away from him, and begins to walk around the room.

Polio. When I was six. Left me with a limp til I was eleven. That's when they operated to straighten my spine. Scoliosis they said.

Her monologue is interrupted here with the jarring sound cue of an x-ray flapped on to a light box.

At this point the director Richard Brooks flashes to a younger version of Theresa who interjects in tearful fear, "Papa. Papa." The interruptions continue, though they're visual rather than verbal now. "After that..." Theresa begins, but rather than hearing her explanation (at first) we're seeing a montage of soundless still images of Theresa's childhood: a nightmare of casts, x-rays, shame and misery. Seventies movies were so blissfully experimental with their film grammar, even when they had actresses as riveting as Keaton and could have coasted with unimaginative close-ups.

I came home wearing a plaster cast. They put me on a bed downstairs in the living room where everyone could watch, day and night. For one whole year and two days. They prayed a lot. It was God's will they said.

I never did understand what terrible thing I did, you know, to make God so angry?

What's fascinating about Keaton's performance throughout the scene is the way she's conveying, rather unexpectedly, both the distant physical memory that defined her and a calculated manipulation of her physical present. The memory is emotional but the reciting is equally physical as she paces and pivots. She's constantly recalibrating the space between herself and her potential lover and maybe even bridging the distance between her immobile young self and the sensual adult woman she wants to be. Is she using this story and moment for sympathy (she claims she doesn't want it) or merely buying time to work up her sexual confidence? Possibly both.

The professor tries to interrupt her, but she doesn't let him.

No. No. I hate people feeling sorry.

I'd rather be seduced than comforted.

And with that, purpose vocalized, she's snapped back to the movie's opening scene; Theresa is totally focused on the man before her as an object of carnal pleasure. He chuckles, moving away from her advance and a flicker of self-doubt and confusion crosses her face. But Theresa is not moving through the room anymore. She's planted her feet. She unzips her blouse. Soon enough, mere moments after he zips her back up in half-hearted protest, he's unzipping her again. Keaton punctuates this expertly played scene by placing her hands expectantly on her hips, with some impossible combination of bitchy vixenish triumph and arguably virginal thrill.


He's hers. For the night. Many lovers to follow.

Even if Annie Hall had not existed (god forbid!), you could still make a case for Keaton as 1977's Best Actress. In truth, since we're on the subject, I prefer Diane Keaton's dramatic characters to her comedic ones, Ms. Hall excepted of course. It's that 'la-di-da' persona that stuck, but Keaton is underappreciated as a dramatic force. There's an inimitable erotic fire in her best work, despite a screen persona and physicality that more readily draw attention to neurotic fussiness.

Nothing about her is obvious.
*