How movies have changed—or is it just me? Tricia McGill

Find buy links to this and all my other books here on my Books We Love Author page 

I watched a movie recently that brought back a load of memories. Its title is, ‘Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool’ and came as a complete surprise to me. I had no idea what it was about, or who starred in it until I began to watch it. Annette Bening portrayed Gloria Grahame in the final stages of her life.  Her lover Peter Turner was 26 when she met him and she was already in her 50s, had four children and four husbands behind her. This movie was adapted from Peter’s memoirs and despite its gloominess and sadness at the end, I found it an enchanting story. Their love was so poignant and convincing, and apparently caused quite a stir. Jamie Bell, who stole many hearts as Billy Elliot, plays Peter. Coincidentally Julie Walters who played his dance teacher in that movie plays his mother in this one and for me stole every scene she appeared in.

This movie took me off on another jaunt down memory lane. Oklahoma was my favourite that Gloria appeared in. I recall her as the blonde with the unusual pout. My whole family were avid movie goers as well as avid readers and one or the other of them was always off to the ‘pictures’ as we called the cinema. I recall my two oldest sisters going off to see Fanny by Gaslight. I also recall they considered me too young and innocent to see what they thought a ‘scandalous’ film. During my teens one sister, who was still at home after the others had married, and I often went to the cinema two or three times a week, paying one shilling and nine pence for a seat. 

Some of the movies we saw stand out in my mind forever, and some were considered Greats. Strangers on a Train springs to mind, simply because it starred Farley Granger, who I had a crush on at the time. Many younger people reading this have likely never heard of him. But I guarantee you know of greats like James Dean, John Wayne, Marlon Brando, James Stewart, Clark Gable, Doris Day, Janet Leigh, Elizabeth Taylor, to mention a few—my list could go on and on. One of my favourite actresses was Susan Hayward. We never hear much of her now, but I will never forget With a Song in my Heart.

Do a search for 1950s movies and you will see the list is endless and full of greats. I remember my sister and I queuing in the rain to see Bing Crosby in The Bells of St. Mary’s which coincidentally I watched only recently on TV masterpieces. And let’s not forget Disney’s early greats like Bambi and Dumbo. Often there would be ‘standing room only’ at the cinema, which meant we would stand along the sidewall until somebody vacated a seat. Oft times my sister and I would not end up sitting side by side. In those days, there would be no long breaks between programmes and some folk would stay to see a movie through again, which often meant a long stand on the side aisle. Musicals were always my favourite. Movies like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, High Society, Guys and Dolls, The King and I.

https://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2017/06/the-100-best-films-of-the-1950s.html

Getting back to my original question, have movies changed. Of course they have. We’ve gone from love scenes that invariably ended with a fade-out after the first kiss, to show it all sex scenes that in my honest opinion have gone too far. I much prefer to use my imagination. There is so much technology used nowadays that it is often mind-boggling. Don’t get me wrong, I love it and if I was born just 20 years ago that’s the industry I would choose. I am full of admiration for the creators of movies like Guardians of the Galaxy and its successor Guardians Vol 2, both currently my favourites. Not only is the technical stuff amazing, but I just love the little critters who make the movie so amusing and likeable. 

Being a Sci-Fi fan, I am in awe of the sheer splendour at how the producers make it all come to life on the screen. What doesn’t please me about modern movies are the car crashes and/or shoot ups that often use up the first 30 minutes or so of the movie, and then often 80 per cent of the entire film.

That’s me and my opinion. I know that many of my friends are of the same mind. You can’t understand what half the actors are saying and they should take a lesson from actors like Richard Burton who had perfect diction and made your toes curl with his magnificent voice. And likewise, Sir Laurence Olivier. And don’t get me started on the sound tracks—why are they so loud, half the time drowning out the voices of the actors? 

Ah well, as they say, “To Each His Own”. Come to think on it, wasn’t that an old black and white movie with Olivia de Havilland and John Lund?

To find more info on all my books visit my web page.

Song of a Whip-Poor-Will

by Kathy Fischer-Brown

Louis Agassiz Fuertes - Birds of New York 

I’ve never ceased being amazed at how a sound, a smell, or an image can set off a chain of memories. Often these are deep-seated, long forgotten memories tucked away among recollections from earliest childhood. Sure, there are photographs stored in boxes or old slides whose colors have faded that I’ll take out and once in a blue moon to share with family, or scan to preserve for the future. But every so often, something totally unexpected tickles a nerve, stimulating the mind to take a trip back in time.

Take the song of the Eastern whip-poor-will, for example. Too many years had passed since I last heard its distinctive call, making for a completely unexpected moment of nostalgia one late spring evening about a year ago. Well over sixty years, to be precise. 

I was a city kid. We lived in a one bedroom apartment in The Bronx—my mom, dad, two-year-old sister, and I. Some years earlier, my paternal grandfather had bought a property in Plattekill, NY, a picturesque spot in Ulster County on the Hudson River, with acres of land on which stood an old and sizeable stone and clapboard Dutch farmhouse. It was to have been Grandpa Ben’s retirement home, but a massive heart attack felled him at the age of 48, a month after my sister was born. Subsequently, the house, along with its abundance of trees and assorted wildlife reverted to my dad, his sister and my grandmother. I don’t remember much of my life before the summer after I turned three. But that summer was memorable.

As a toddler my world consisted of our small one bedroom apartment on University Avenue, where a grassy esplanade down the center of the street held groups of benches for sitting and shooting the breeze on sunny days in all seasons; a small playground with swings and seesaws, and a movie theater were within walking distance. Family and friends all lived close by. But starting some time after I turned two, we began spending our summers at the house in Plattekill. 

My sister and me (right) in the haystack, circa 1954

Even now I remember how much I loved the place, although I can’t really visualize much of it, and after a futile search for it online, I wonder if it’s still standing. There was a certain smell, of pine and cedar, the coolness in the shadows of wide elms and oaks, from one of which my father hung a tire on a rope from a hefty bough for us—and the many cousins who came from the city in an endless stream—to swing on.  We had a beagle, Taffy Lou, who, it seemed, had a litter of fat, fluffy puppies every summer—brown ones, black ones, spotted ones…. Her beau was a neighbor dog named Fido (no kidding), who came to visit alone or with his owner, a freckle-faced girl named Terry, who was about seven or eight. Down the country road was a dairy farm. I had a particular favorite among the cows; her name was Elsie (or at least that was what I called her).

On warm summer evenings, we’d sit outside in the newly mown grass on folding chairs with striped canvas slings and watch what seemed like hundreds of rabbits hopping along the edge of a copse of tall trees at the edge of the property. We had a small tractor that one of my older boy cousins liked to drive over the acres of tall grass, with me and his younger brother dangling our legs off the back platform. Afterwards, we’d rake up the cuttings and build a gigantic haystack, which provided hours of jumping and burrowing fun. Our next door neighbors behind a palisade fence were a family who owned the Freihoffer Baking Co. They had an apple orchard, and by summer’s end, there were more apples than they could shake a stick at. Around this time, the sweet cinnamon aroma of simmering apple sauce and apple pies in the oven filled the place. 

And, of course, there were whip-poor-wills. Every evening and well into the night, I'd stay awake listening. A kid from The Bronx never heard such a thing.

After my family sold the house following the summer of my fourth year (because we had outgrown the small apartment with the birth of yet another sister), we moved from The Bronx to Long Island. I remember being sad over not having the old house to summer in anymore. Even the thought of having grass and trees (and bugs) year-round was of little consolation. And for the next 12 years, I didn't hear a single whip-poor-will. Not even once. Then, after we moved again when I turned 16, this time to Connecticut, the whip-poor-will and its singular sound had faded from my consciousness.

My dad was glad of the moves. He owned a printing company in The Bronx and during those summers in Plattekill, he’d stay in the city and join us for weekends. I missed him, just as years later I’d wait up for him and worry on especially snowy nights while he made his onerous nightly commute home.

Which brings me back to that elusive bird. Sadly, its numbers are in decline, and as I mentioned, I hadn't heard one in over half a century. So, you could say, I was exuberant on that evening in early June last summer when its unmistakable warble broke the settling silence in the wooded area near my house. It was probably just passing through, for its call was unusually brief, and I haven’t heard it since. But in the moments following, I was transported back to a Friday night long ago, when, unable to stay awake long enough to greet my dad following his weekly commute, I fell asleep. The bird’s song was a sweet reminder of that night and of my dad, all of about 29 at the time, sitting at my bedside, gently waking his sleeping child with the song she had grown to love over a few short, unforgettable summers.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy's books are available in a variety of e-book formats and in paperback from Amazon and other online retailers, as well as a bookstore near you.