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Crazy and Glorious
Mar. 30th, 2003 12:03 amThe Spouse bought the extended dance remix of Singin' in the Rain a while back, and I watched it (along with 90% of the extras, of course) over spring break. I have come to two conclusions about the movie:
1) Cosmo Brown is so totally in hopelessly unrequieted love with Don Lockwood it's not even funny.
2) Gene Kelley, circa 1952, had the finest male ass to ever grace the face of this planet. Bar none.
Regarding the first one, just look at how Cosmo looks at Don throughout the whole movie. The over-the-top franticness of "Make 'Em Laugh" absolutely reeks of repressed sexual energy. He doesn't seem the least bit interested in the girl at the party, even though the dialogue suggests he's trying to seduce her. (This one is probably the censor's fault, but that's metathinking.) And his comment to Lina - "You looked pretty good for a girl!" - is exactly what one would expect. There's gotta be a fanfic there, if I can ever sit down and write it.
The second one is a little easier to mine.
In the beginning, there was art on the walls and storytelling around the cookfire. We drew and told stories about ancestral heroes and heroines, gods and goddesses. There was admiration, pride, perhaps even fear connected with the subjects, but it seems unlikely anyone would ever fall in love or lust with them.
Then came drama, sculpture, and the written word. It seems, from the existence of the myth of Pygmalion, that falling in live with a sculpture, at least, was possible. I seem to recall that the actors on the Greek stages had fans. But still, one was chasing after something physical, something existing - a player on the stage, or a painting, or a chink of marble - as well as the image behind it. Presumably no one wanted to boff Antigone herself. At least, if they did, I imagine either the Greeks would have mentioned it, or the Romans would have complained about it.
The written word continues to develop, as does drama. At some point, the romantic novel is invented. Now we are supposed to have feelings for/about the characters, either as embodied through actors or as carried solely by the page. Who has pined for Viola?
Then - the photograph, followed by the motion picture; also, we have sound recording. Eventually these merge.
Now we are in trouble.
As an eighth grader, I remember watching endless episodes of "The Monkees," at the time the band was having its goofy little revival. I had a massive and passionate crush, in the way that only a thirteen-year-old girl can have, on Micky Dolenz. Not the one that existed in 1987, though. He was interesting to hear interviews of, to be sure, but far too old to hold any interest for me. But neither was it the fictional character of Micky from the TV show - the frenzied goofball. No, I was head-over-teenybopper-heels for the Micky Dolenz who had been in 1968 - who of course no longer existed except as the groundwork for the mature (if goofy-looking) adult of 1987.
At least he was still alive. I could have had the misfortune of watching the old Bing Crosby movies my mother enjoys. Having seen some of them now, I certainly wouldn't mind having a chance at Bing as he was in, oh, about 1933.
One of the glories of text is that it preserves a bit of a person (actually, an impressive number of bytes, but who's counting) for future generations to interact with. Our recording technology now makes it possible to lust after, crush on, or even potentially fall in true love with a person who is not only generations older than us but it now dead as an Edison cylinder.
What's the old quote? "My best friend died thirty years before I was born, and my true love will be born thirty years after my death?" Something like that, anyway. I suppose we ought to be glad we might at least get the chance to see and hear them. At least the greatness that was Kelley's posterior has been recorded for all time, along with Bing's voice and Astaire's grace.
Makes one wonder what great asses we missed on those ancient players on Athens's stages, though. Or what great lovers have long since become soil again in China, instead of facing a camera in Hong Kong five hundred years later. Or . . .
1) Cosmo Brown is so totally in hopelessly unrequieted love with Don Lockwood it's not even funny.
2) Gene Kelley, circa 1952, had the finest male ass to ever grace the face of this planet. Bar none.
Regarding the first one, just look at how Cosmo looks at Don throughout the whole movie. The over-the-top franticness of "Make 'Em Laugh" absolutely reeks of repressed sexual energy. He doesn't seem the least bit interested in the girl at the party, even though the dialogue suggests he's trying to seduce her. (This one is probably the censor's fault, but that's metathinking.) And his comment to Lina - "You looked pretty good for a girl!" - is exactly what one would expect. There's gotta be a fanfic there, if I can ever sit down and write it.
The second one is a little easier to mine.
In the beginning, there was art on the walls and storytelling around the cookfire. We drew and told stories about ancestral heroes and heroines, gods and goddesses. There was admiration, pride, perhaps even fear connected with the subjects, but it seems unlikely anyone would ever fall in love or lust with them.
Then came drama, sculpture, and the written word. It seems, from the existence of the myth of Pygmalion, that falling in live with a sculpture, at least, was possible. I seem to recall that the actors on the Greek stages had fans. But still, one was chasing after something physical, something existing - a player on the stage, or a painting, or a chink of marble - as well as the image behind it. Presumably no one wanted to boff Antigone herself. At least, if they did, I imagine either the Greeks would have mentioned it, or the Romans would have complained about it.
The written word continues to develop, as does drama. At some point, the romantic novel is invented. Now we are supposed to have feelings for/about the characters, either as embodied through actors or as carried solely by the page. Who has pined for Viola?
Then - the photograph, followed by the motion picture; also, we have sound recording. Eventually these merge.
Now we are in trouble.
As an eighth grader, I remember watching endless episodes of "The Monkees," at the time the band was having its goofy little revival. I had a massive and passionate crush, in the way that only a thirteen-year-old girl can have, on Micky Dolenz. Not the one that existed in 1987, though. He was interesting to hear interviews of, to be sure, but far too old to hold any interest for me. But neither was it the fictional character of Micky from the TV show - the frenzied goofball. No, I was head-over-teenybopper-heels for the Micky Dolenz who had been in 1968 - who of course no longer existed except as the groundwork for the mature (if goofy-looking) adult of 1987.
At least he was still alive. I could have had the misfortune of watching the old Bing Crosby movies my mother enjoys. Having seen some of them now, I certainly wouldn't mind having a chance at Bing as he was in, oh, about 1933.
One of the glories of text is that it preserves a bit of a person (actually, an impressive number of bytes, but who's counting) for future generations to interact with. Our recording technology now makes it possible to lust after, crush on, or even potentially fall in true love with a person who is not only generations older than us but it now dead as an Edison cylinder.
What's the old quote? "My best friend died thirty years before I was born, and my true love will be born thirty years after my death?" Something like that, anyway. I suppose we ought to be glad we might at least get the chance to see and hear them. At least the greatness that was Kelley's posterior has been recorded for all time, along with Bing's voice and Astaire's grace.
Makes one wonder what great asses we missed on those ancient players on Athens's stages, though. Or what great lovers have long since become soil again in China, instead of facing a camera in Hong Kong five hundred years later. Or . . .
