The Great Gabbo was, indeed, great last night, aside from the clunkiness inherent to 1929 talkies, as no one seems to know how to stand or talk. Also, producers attempted to engorge every single picture with as many chorus girls and songs as they could, no matter how crummy the lyrics and microphones were, as if they were unsure as to what else could be done with talkies. However, as usual, Erich von Stroheim is as freakishly charismatic as any actor who ever graced the American screen, and he is always a joy.
And I am not even sure I can explain it. He’s not a really great sound actor, and heaven knows he wasn’t attractive… It’s just one of those mysteries of life. Cats forecast earthquakes, dowsing pendulums can find ore deposits, and Erich von Stroheim is a total and utter eye-magnet without charm or looks. The world is a strange place.
Right now I am waiting for the mail, and then will head to campus. Hopefully I will not get struck by lightening, although rain is fine. Actually, rain would be perfect for me today.
In order to lift my spirits, I went on to a favourite oldies DVD site that has some of the cheapest movies for sale I’ve ever seen, and I ordered a couple on their 5 for $25 sale. For the price of a pizza, three more von Stroheim pictures, along with My Man Godfrey (1936) and the colossal freak-show that is Enemy of Women (1944), shall be winging their way to me within days.
Again, it is not like I am depressed… It’s more like high anxiety. Ever since the centipede run-in (actually, there was a second one the next night), I have been unable to sleep in my bed with confidence, so my pattern now is to wait until I am so tired I fall over before I actually try to sleep. And even then, I wake up mere hours later and can’t relax again. Here alone, I think I see insects everywhere, and I am in some sort of strange fretting cycle about the apartment and school work, etc., etc.
On one hand, I wish I could be like those silly little tarts you see running around who look like the only worry they have ever had in their little Styrofoam heads involves their cell phone covers being out of fashion.
Sure, in their darker moments, they probably have flashes that they will die fat, wrinkled and alone because inside there is really nothing. However, that is only when the have had too much Bacardi by themselves at home while watching Buffy, and all they have to do to quell it is to call one of their dumpy friends and take the poor beast shopping and ask her, “Am I fat?” 400 times to make her cry and themselves feel better.
So, on the other hand… It’s not so bad to be me, even if I am slightly neurotic and riddled with iodine-soaked-razor-knicked nerves.
After all, they will never know the true joy of von Stroheim.
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