Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

DVD Review: Gilda Live

The name “Gilda” will forever conjure up memories of Gilda Radner (1946-1989), perhaps the most beloved and hilarious of the original Saturday Night Live cast. In 1979, during a summer break in SNL, the comedian’s one-woman show on Broadway was filmed by director Mike Nichols. This no-frills, cheaply packaged DVD has been put out by Warner Brothers as part of their Archive Collection. Luckily, Gilda requires no frills – her gargantuan talent is all we need.

Drawing on her SNL characters, but spiced up without the censorship imposed by television broadcasting, Gilda opens with her racy Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals, adding a touch of Lenny Bruce to her own unique physical humor.

She gives us edgy versions of her signature characters, holding nothing back. One wonders where she finds the reserves of intense energy in that petite body. Gilda plays Judy Miller, the hyperkinetic kid literally climbing the walls, treating her bed like a trampoline and letting her emotions shriek with a cathartic abandon. She plunges into the depths of excess with Candy Slice, her version of a self-immolating, drugged-out rock ‘n roll star, ala Mick Jagger / Patti Smith. [See the YouTube clip below.] Nor are we deprived of her other characters, including Lisa Loopner, Roseanne Roseannadanna and Emily Litella. And of course the 1960s Jewish girl group Rhonda and the Rhondettes turn up with their identical, high-camp Farah Fawcett hairdos.

In between her scenes, she has two sidekicks who do bits while she is changing her costumes. A young Paul Shaffer (then a band member on SNL, now the band leader for David Letterman) gives surprisingly nuanced comic performances. Don Novello plays his SNL character Father Guido Sarducci, spokesman for the comatose Cardinal (high on a piece of a Quaalude). [See the YouTube clip below.] The wit in these pieces remains no less relevant and biting today.

The film is shot like a modern concert documentary, complete with glimpses of Gilda’s high-speed costume changes, of the controlled backstage chaos of a theatrical evening and of an adoring audience. In fact, Mike Nichols opens with a shot of Gilda in her dressing room trying to do something with her wild hair. “No hairbrush!” she laughs into the camera. “Opening night and there’s no hairbrush.”

This spectacularly funny DVD is a bittersweet experience for Gilda Ratner’s fans, knowing by hindsight that she is to pass away so very young a decade later. Her super vitality, her ability to so utterly inhabit her alter-egos and her willingness to expose herself to physical and emotional danger remain unsurpassed. The adulation of the audience is as palpable as Gilda’s sincere gratification.

This review first appeared on EdgeBoston.com.

Here are Gilda and Paul Shaffer doing the edgy Candy Slice and the Slicers.

And here is the Five Minute University from Don Novello playing Father Guido Sarducci.

No Way Through

Checkpoints are one of the most obtrusive and demeaning methods by which the Israelis control the Palestinians whose land they have been occupying since 1967. The checkpoints cause incredible harm for it is simply impossible to get from any point A to any point B without gruesome and repeated delays and detours, as well as endless humiliation at the hands of young - sometimes teen-aged - Israeli soldiers.

The photo on the left was taken in September, 2008, as people tried to cross from the West Bank town Ramallah to Jerusalem to attend their mosque.

Here's just one example of the harm done, according to the BBC news:

Between 2000 and 2006, at least 68 Palestinian women gave birth at Israeli checkpoints, according to the Palestinian health ministry. Of these 35 women miscarried, and five died in childbirth.

According the United Nations there are more than 600 physical obstructions, including checkpoints, to the movement of Palestinians in the West Bank.

How does it feel? Take seven minutes and watch this short film, No Way Through, please.

I Saw Dylan Perform Live Saturday Night

All around us in the Wang Theater, the buzz was building. About 20 minutes later than the concert had been scheduled to begin, those in the front rows started screaming. The wave of adulation as he came out on the stage was profound and heartfelt. What kind of impact, I wondered, would a steady diet of that degree of fan-love do to the mind of an entertainer?

In Bob Dylan’s case, it seems to have made him… well, a rude and parsimonious performer. His musical styles may have changed over the decades, but not his attitude towards his audiences. Perhaps he’s of the “treat them mean; keep them keen” persuasion. He certainly wasn’t going to give us any sense that he was happy to see us, too. No, he was going to ignore us, never speak one word to us, never show the slightest emotion, excitement or passion.

My partner had surprised me with tickets to the Bob Dylan concert this weekend. I used to see him in the ‘60s at Club 47, an intimate basement folk club in Harvard Square. He was a curly-haired, rosy-cheeked lad in those days – and taciturn even then.

Here at the Wang, we sat in the center of the orchestra section. Luckily I had brought the Russian opera glasses that had been a present from my late friend Nina.

But what a bummer. The sound sucked. It was like a wall of noise, making every song a bit of a homogeneous jumble. Dylan’s band had been so highly praised that I was expecting music, not mud. Other than “Lay Lady Lay,” – which I really liked – Dylan’s reinterpretations of favorites turned them into a comfort-food-like sameness that was, at the same time, quintessential Dylan, for when we could hear it, that gravelly rasp gave it all a familiarity.

His show is very professional – even slick. There’s not a spontaneous moment, not a glance towards the audience or a lead-in anecdote to any song. There is only the playlist.

The set-up of the stage is calculated to isolate Dylan and the band from the audience. The band is spread across the stage, in a kind of rising semi-circle (the drummer is at the apex) with Dylan to the audience’s right. All the instruments and mikes are set in Dylan’s direction and the band members rarely look at anything but Dylan. They are a function of him – even when they’re doing a solo. It’s aimed to him, never to us. Not a one of them is having fun. There is no smile, ever. It is an especially dour group of white boys.

Dylan is crazy skinny, but dressed up and dapper in a hat, fancy shirt, dark vest and jacket. He stands with a certain elegant grace and while his movements are subtle and diminutive, they are also cool. When he’s not on an electric keyboard (most often) or guitar (a few times), he stands with his legs apart, knees slightly bent, feet parallel, and gesticulates with a muted version of crooner gestures, opening his arms wide, pointing his finger.

After each song, the lights go down. They huddle in the dark and decide on the next composition and are back in their places when the lights go up – all the musicians riveted on Dylan. They are supposed to play for 2 ¼ hours, but they play for 1 ¾ hours. It is enough for me. They don’t do an encore, but by the end of this cold, alienating set, the audience of multiple generations is no longer quite so adoring.

Here is a clip from a different town a few days earlier this week on their tour. His style is the same and the music is just as muddy. People paid big bucks in these hard times to see him, but he wouldn’t give us a thing. Not love. Not recognition. Very little nostalgia. Not a modicum of clarity in the music. It was a demonstration of constipated rote. My question: Why is the man touring when he obviously dislikes his work?

The Ross Sisters Get All Tied Up

Don't get too excited - this isn't a bondage clip. It's the only piece of film remaining from the career of the Ross Sisters, siblings from Texas who created a song/dance/contortionist act from the 1940s. Taken from the film "Broadway Rhythm," the first minute seems much like the Andrew Sisters mold, but after that it gets pretty crazy. Since this is Friday the 13th and you're probably hiding in your abode behind locked doors, a hunk of garlic hanging around your neck and some salt to fling over your shoulder, you probably need some entertainment. Enjoy, while these girls truly get their knickers in a twist!

Q&A: Step Away From my Crotch with that Scalpel

I received a note from my dear friend Mike – a multi-talented gay man who follows my blog. He was perplexed by an article about pussy surgery on the BBC website and he wrote:

Q:  Sue, Perhaps you are the only person I can ask about this: What the hell is a 'perfect vagina'? And who are women doing this for? Anyway - hoping that you are well, and of course that your vagina is happy, or even perfect. Mike

A: I clicked the link Mike included and was appalled. The article claims a rise in labioplasty – that is, cosmetic surgery on women’s genitals. The goal seems to be to reduce the size of pussy lips for women who are embarrassed (presumably at being adults).  According to the article “In studies dating back to 1950, examined by the researchers, dissatisfaction with the way the vagina looked was the primary reason for surgery, with patients also speaking of low self-esteem and sexual difficulties.”

Then why not suggest a bit of therapy or a lot of feminism to these women? Why slice them up? This is part of the tyranny of skinniness, the fetishization of Lolita-like looks and the ever-present medicalization of women’s sexuality. Blame the woman for her sexual dissatisfaction when her partner forgets where her clit is or only likes oral in his direction.

When women get to know their sexual bodies, they discover that rather than being invisible and hidden, just a miniature version of a man, our gear is really big and special. The first time I saw a shaved pussy, I was amazed at the size of the labia – how rich, luscious, full they are under their furry protection. And only in recent years have we learned how wildly extensive the root of the clit is.

So Mike, the answer to your question about what the hell a “perfect vagina” could be is: a healthy, pampered one with a proud and confident owner. A “perfect vagina” is one that has not been submitted to the surgeon for a facelift, not been doused with stinky perfume to hide its natural aroma and not been forcibly clamped into a vicious chastity belt (unless that’s part of a consensual sexual play scenario.)

As for me, I’m as well as can be expected in a country in which the Democrats have turned into Republicans and the Republicans have turned into Teabaggers. And, yes, my vagina is a lot happier than the rest of me and wants me to thank you for your kind enquiries.

Review: Here Come the Girls

“Here Come the Girls” is an extraordinary collection of short lesbian films from nine well-known and breakthrough directors from the UK, the USA and Canada. Several of these films are prize-winners and festival favorites, but nearly all of them can brag of polished production values and a riveting narrative. 

Some films deal with feelings that are out of control. In a witty short called “A Soft Place” (dir. Suzanne Guacci) a lesbian and her married straight lover meet up in a laundromat over a soiled duvet in a display of hyper-neurosis on the part of the married woman and super-human patience on the part of the dyke. Director Angela Cheng’s “Wicked Desire” looks at the fraught, emotional impact on families of their kids’ exploration of gender identity and sexuality. The deeply moving “Congratulations Daisy Graham” (dir. Cassandra Nicolaou) grapples with aging, mental illness and physical disease. Like the best short-story writers, in a mere 15 minutes, Nicolaou succeeds in drawing us into the past and present lives of this couple.

Other films deal with violence, whether between “Dani and Alice” (dir. Roberta Munroe) in a disturbingly honest look at abuse inside a lesbian relationship, or unexplained, mysterious violence in “Late,” directed by that dyke household name, Guinevere Turner. A playful boxing match opens “Below the Belt” (dir. Dominique Cardona and Laurie Colbert) in a disappointing film about young lovers that lacks sharp characterization.

The period piece “Private Life” (dir. Abbe Robinson) follows the boss’s secretly cross-dressing daughter as she meets up with one of the comely weavers from her dad’s textile factory. Set in northern England in 1952, it offers us the stealth, fear, police oppression and passion that accompanied queer love in the “homogeneous” 50s.

Sexuality is a strong theme, not the least in a gorgeous tribute to femme lesbians called “Fem,” directed by Inge “Campbell” Blackman, the well-known London filmmaker. (Disclosure: Campbell is an acquaintance.) The film is narrated by Peggy Shaw, the irresistible butch half of the veteran performance duo “Split Britches,” and features a bevy of femme dykes including Lois Weaver, the ever-sexy other half of “Split Britches,” and Cherry Smyth, the Irish poet. “Fem” offers ten minutes of tribute to that uniquely lesbian fem/butch dynamic. The gaze here is butch; the visual luscious femininity. “You love the woman inside the man that I am, even though beside me the closet swings open and there is nowhere to hide.” In contrast to the butch’s risky exposure is the femme’s potential visual assimilation. “And when you are invisible, you become my gender spy, my queer Mata Hari.” By the way, without being a spoiler, I can assure you that the DVD is worth the price of the dripping honey shot.

China, Come Back: A True Story

As I come out of the pharmacy in Davis Square, I am astounded by the intensity of the rain. I take a breath and then sprint across the street, jumping into my car as quickly as possible. Twisting around to my left to check the on-coming cars, I am trying to pull out into traffic safely. But suddenly there is a startling banging on the passenger-side window. A young woman, her long hair dripping, is crazily pointing at the top of her head and trying to get into my car via the locked door. It’s not scary – it’s just weird.

I open up the door, hustling to toss the CD books, the bag of fruit, the extra sweater and my purse from the passenger seat into the back as she clamors in and slams her door shut. “Follow that bus!” she screams. “My hat’s on that bus.”

I don’t hesitate. This request seems perfectly reasonable in these stormy circumstances, despite the decibels and the angst. I pull out in the direction of a bus that is at least ten cars in front of me. “I’m China,” she says, gulping air after each phrase. “I left my hat on the 87 bus. I realized it just as I got out of the bus and the door closed behind me. The driver wouldn’t open back up. She pulled away as I pounded on her doors.”

China obviously makes a habit of smacking glass. “I love that hat.” Is she hyperventilating? “I know we can catch her.” In fact, the bus happens to be heading for my neighborhood, but the rush-hour traffic and the monsoon are extending the distance between us. Within minutes we lose sight of it altogether.

On her lap China is holding a dry umbrella. “Yeah,” she says when she sees me glance at it, “I didn’t have time to think or even to open this.” She is in her twenties, with long auburn hair. Clearly she’s more than just a beautiful face – she’s incredibly determined to retrieve her favorite accessory. I find this perfectly reasonable.

I concentrate on catching the bus. It has become our joint quest, China and me. By now I too am nearly hyperventilating. I press through puddles and traffic, but there is no bus in sight. Interspersed between my clutching the steering wheel as I lean forward to peer through the downpour and China’s stories about herself and her questions about my life, are her fraught exclamations – “There she is! Faster, faster!”

We get past a Volkswagon VW that, in trying to turn left, has been holding us up. “I used to have one of those,” I tell her. “Years ago. My friend Maddog was a VW mechanic and she put it together for me from a ’58 engine and a ’64 body. In the 70s, I sold that sucker for $600.”

“Do you live on Harvard Street?” For some reason I accept her non-sequitor question as if she were one of those puzzling members of my family.

“No.”

“Because once I was hit by a car and a woman your age with a VW really helped me. Her face is a blur, because, well, you know, I had just been hit by a car.” Makes sense to me. China obviously conflates her Knights in shining armor – at least those of a certain age.

I drive several miles down Broadway, not once spotting the bus. I’ve arrived at my neighborhood – the center of which may be the final destination of that elusive 87 bus. She wants me to keep going, but once I am a few blocks past my building, I tell China that I’ve done about as much as I can.  My friend Mary is arriving momentarily so I’m really sorry but I have to get home. China’s head is swiveling desperately. She wants the bus that stole her favorite hat and she is not going to hear anything that might impede her search. In her mind I’ve signed on for the duration. Charming as the idea is, I keep in mind that I am not a lifer in China’s drama.

 I turn into the library and do a U-turn to head back to my own place. Along the way I look for an 87 bus stop so that I can send China back to Davis Square, where I picked her up. But then she screeches into my ear, “There she is!” I gun it in order to pull up right next to the bus, which is turning left. I am in the right lane – forbidden to turn. All I can do is honk and honk, but the bus driver is oblivious.

So the race is back on. “Go straight and take the next left,” China hollers excitedly. “We’ll cut her off on her way back down Broadway.” I accelerate down several blocks, watching my own building blur by, until I can make a legal left towards Broadway. I drive up to Broadway, but am stopped by a red light at the corner when the bus whizzes by. The chase has again cranked up. The driver doesn’t stop at the closest bus stop, the next stop, or the one after that – with this rain, no one is out on the streets. She is racing so fast that the bus is listing from side to side.

At this point I am ready to speed up, pass the bus and screech to a stop in front of it – just to end the adventure in the hopes of getting back home before my guest arrives. Luckily I just read about a man who was arrested for kidnapping for having trapped a woman in her car with his in the same way in a parking lot.

The god of red lights finally does me a favor and stops us both, side by side. Again I honk and this time the driver turns to look down on me. “Now!” I yell to China, as I try to sustain the driver’s gaze: I gesticulate, now pointing to China, now pointing to the bus doors, now begging her to wait a minute.

China crosses in front of me and then stands in the downpour knocking on the bus doors, a look of painful anticipation on her face. The driver looks at her and then at me. I’m a witness, I think she’s thinking. She has to do something. She opens the doors, China jumps up on the stairs and the light turns green. I take a right to double back to the main street and go home, panting. Suddenly my car feels cavernously empty and I wonder when next China will drop into it.