My Lucky Star Memoirs
March may be the least glamorous time of the year. Award season is finally over, spring doesn’t officially start for another few weeks, and the greatest movies of 2015 likely won’t hit theaters for at least a few months. The best cure for what ails the deprived cinephile? Star memoirs. Referred to as “diva lit” by Philadelphia Inquirer film critic Carrie Rickey, film actor autobiographies may not be especially truthful but they’re often juicy and even insightful. Here is a completely subjective bibliography of the best ones around – both in print and out – with a big tip of the hat to helpful colleagues whose bookshelves also buckle under the weight of these dishy tomes.
By Myself by Lauren Bacall
Bacall won a National Book Award for this memoir, and, boy, did she deserve it. A characteristically sly-eyed account of this “nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn” who became Humphrey Bogart’s better half (on and off screen), it captures the magic of Hollywood without pulling any punches. Of her relationship with Bogie, she writes: “When we looked at each other, trumpets sounded, rockets went off.”
Talullah: My Autobiography by Tallulah Bankhead
With tales of entertaining the Wright brothers as a child, cavorting with monkeys as an aspiring actress, and a whole lot of Kentucky bourbon consumption, the screen siren’s memoir is as outrageous as the rest of her persona. Says she: “I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as ditch water – I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone.” Continue Reading →
Cat, Mouse, Bruja
Permakitten Grace and I are in a fight. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t stem from extreme cabin fever–as I type this the sky is issuing a white cold substance that I no longer deign to name–but I do think I am wrong and she is right. It comes down to this: I pay for our home and food, clean up her excretion, provide her with toys and scratches. In return she is very beautiful and sweet, if occasionally standoffish. But this extreme cold has driven a few mice into our building, and the one job you can expect any feline to do is kill mice. Heck, they’re supposed to enjoy this activity. My once-tough street kitty has become so soft that she assumes these eldritch interlopers have been invited for her explicit delight, though. The other night I even caught her cradling one as if it were another catnip stuffed animal I’d bought for her entertainment: When I walked in the room, the rodent casually stepped out of her paws and walked away while she watched contentedly. Uh, no.
I sat her down. “Look, in our house, all Rosman girls work. You can’t just play with the mice. One way or another, you have to get rid of them. That’s what kitties do.”
My talk fell on deaf ears. The next night I woke to scratching noises in my office and found the two of them happily scampering after each other in a circle. Continue Reading →
