Joined: 11/17/2011
Posts: 1016
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I've got this idea - I'm a graphic artist - to create a book, The Dinner Date, illustrated in a style reminiscent of the popular Miss Spider series: colorful, cartoonish critters, the narrative a light verse.
A spider Casanova invites a looker out: "Miss Spider, Miss Spider, come stepping with me." She accepts: "With pleasure, kind sir. Absolutely. Gladly!" Bright and bouncey, short and sassy, get it?
They go to the Coconut Grove, enjoy the show from a web under a stage-side table, are disappointed that the headliner turns out to be Peggy Lee instead of the celebrated Peggy Flea, dance up a storm, return to her apartment, consort (A spider sex scene. That should be interesting. Research needed for that, definitely.) after which he meets an unfortunate end. The female of the species, I am told, devours her mate.
She vamps it up, playing the dominatrix in leather and chains. She ties him down. He loves it. The jerk's thinking, I hit the jackpot. This is some wild dolly here!
Can't you picture a smiley-face Miss Spider, got up S&M, corseted so tight she seems to have bosoms spilling out the top? I can. Easily. I don't find the idea of a role-playing, lover-gobbling eight-legged vixen outlandish, not at all.
A sunny tale of sex, murder and cannibalism, an iteration of the happy-sappy animals-in-pants genre, handled well, could be charming. And hilarious.
Isn't satire protected? Or will the Miss Spider folks be on me like dung-beetles on you-know-what? What about those lampoons of Time, Newsweek, and so forth? Isn't it pretty much the same thing?
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Joined: 11/17/2011
Posts: 1016
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Wow!
Wow! Wowie! Wow!
It is so good to hear from you! I figured you were so busy and so successful that you hadn't time for BC. I was glad for you, and sorry for us.
Yeah, I'm keeping my co-workers in stitches, strategizing about Sly's fascination with a pampered monkey mascot at Queen Elizabeth's court, and about spider vaginas.
I haven't made too much progress on Sly ... wait! I've made a ton of progress, idea-wise. I've got a far better scheme for my basic assassination plot, but I have mucho research to do and my eyes are giving me trouble, like I said.
I have hopes that I may finally have solved my vision problem, at least in part. Only time will tell. I'll soldier on, count on it.
Let me throw something out, tell me what you think. I'm still wrestling with the too-too-muchness of Sly. How's about I cull all that background, streamline chapter one, make a follow-up chapter 1a, with the title:
Don't Read This.
You Don't Need To Know Any Of This To Follow The Story. Skip It, OK? If You Read It, I Don't Want To Hear Any Complaints.
Does that do anything for you?
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Joined: 4/26/2011
Posts: 26
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Thanks so much for the warm welcome back Mimi  Nice to be here again. Yes my PhD had me tied up but things are relaxing a bit now thankfully. I wrote a 196k word Screenwriting Textbook, a 30k word Exegesis, two 8k words academic journal articles, and built a computer model to explain the narrative & systems theory behind what I've been doing.
The online model is here if it is of interest to anyone:
Practice Theory Narratology agent-based model (Velikovsky)
https://dl.dropbox.com/u/55175351/DIFI%20model%20112/DIFI%20Screenplays%20Velikovsky%20V113.html
And - that's hilarious Mimi! (ie "Don't Read This", etc) and yes -- I absolutely think it's a great idea.
And I love this, the Tone of it feels perfect for `Sly':
"You Don't Need To Know Any Of This To Follow The Story. Skip It, OK? If You Read It, I Don't Want To Hear Any Complaints."
i.e. Fits in so well, with the tone you establish in the rest of the prose. ie Very entertaining.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about `attitude' in Tone. It's interesting (well, for me, at least, possibly nobody else to see how the `attitude' in something like, say Don De Lillo's `White Noise' extends, in both the prose narration and the characters' dialog style/s. It seems slightly more evident/exaggerated in the dialog than the prose - but, is consistent.
I also find the same with a lot of Douglas Adams. (i.e. It's all good...) But (I find, anyway) perhaps, with Joseph Heller (Catch-22) - the tone in the prose is a bit more crazy, than the dialog itself. Something to do with the author's worldview. - I've been reading some essays in "Catch As Catch Can", about Catch-22. And its fascinating to see Heller's style evolve from his first short stories to Catch-22... The earlier ones were much more serious in Tone. Also his essay about "I AM the bombardier!" was very revealing. He explains that the war - for him and those in his squadron in Corsica (which obviously became `Pianosa') - was a hoot. They flew around in planes, never saw hand-to-hand combat, and it was all very dreamlike/crazy in a way.
Anyway, sounds great Mimi
Cheers
JoeTV
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Joined: 11/17/2011
Posts: 1016
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Okay, I'm working on an introduction for something I started twenty years ago, yes, another one. I just bopped over here to BC for a break, and, damn! Here you are!
So I'm gonna throw this up here:
Maisie in Hollywood (based - sorta - on Louise Brooks)
Oh, yeah, I'd better tell you that Maisie/Maybelline is a mouse.
The Tempestuous Life of Maybelline Mulot: (Mulot means field mouse in French)
The Natural
Fat Times in Silly City
After the Fall
The Films: Plots, trivia, and stills. (My art, I draw)
The Interviews: "In the land of lies, one must live the truth."
Excerpts from the Diaries: An intoxicating voice, intimate, lyrical, crackling with vigorous observation.
___________________________________________
Marcelline Mulot (rhymes with Monroe). Heard of the dame? Probably not, unless you're a hardcore film buff.
Well, Mulot was a movie sensation, one of the first. Between 1922 and 1928 she starred in no fewer than 24 productions. She earned, and spent, a fortune. But her films disintegrated in industry vaults and today, who knows the name?
She made the sort of mannered film that critics dismiss, but which fans savor, and cherish. Her pictures featured lavish sets and props and gorgeous clothes. Mulot wore stunning costumes, frequently more changes than the other cast members combined.
Her on-screen persona was one that almost everyone could relate to. Men adored her come-hither sauciness. Women admired her pluck. She got away with bits that, delivered by a more intense actress, would have been immediately rejected by the Hayes Office, guardians of public morality.
She knew when to spoof herself. Semi-nude seduction scenes can hardly be taken seriously when the sizzling sexpot stumbles over her lover's tail during her frenzied Dance of the She-Dervish.
She had footage of the notorious scene in her possession, and she ran it for me, on an ancient Powers Cameragraph projector, which was a thrill in itself. "Here it be!" she squealed, in high spirits as the infamous gyration appeared on the screen. I knew what was coming, but had only seen stills. I was on the edge of my seat.
"We assured the Hayes creeps I'd be good, a jeweled strap affair criss-crossing my six titties, which up until then I'd been very casual about cloaking. I'm a mouse, after all.
Cover up, I was told. The codes reads, female bosoms to be draped at all times. Nothing about an exception for mice. Well, that really got my goat.
On a whim I flashed Rudy a rouged tug. "There!" She jumped from her chair in excitement. "Did you catch it? One of my lollipops bare naked to the world! It got past the fools, can you believe it? What a laugh we had about that!"
"Rudy was so startled he whipped his tail around, and I tripped over it. I fell into his arms, which wasn't in the script. He was supposed to spurn my ardent advances. I was to pick up a mango, munch on it calmly, and grind the remains into his gorgeous puss. I figured the director would insist on tossing the take, but when we saw the rushes, well, the scene was priceless. No way was I gonna let it be junked."
"Back home we ran around in our birthday suits, no one thought nothin' of it," she confided. "Leave it to a bubble-brain blue-nose to demand that - Christ Almighty! - even a damn mouse cover her bubbies. Okay, the truth: It wasn't a whim, It was my way of saying, Fuck you, Mr. Hayes, you moron!"
Her eyes twinkled. She shook her fist gleefully. "Maybelle Snodgrass didn't get from Devil's Asshole, Kansas to top-of-the-heap Hollywood without being an arrogant bitch. I called the shots on my sets, you bet I did. It was my career, a big career, at stake. I had approval of director, cameraman, make-up, the works. Then came the incident. Don't you ask about that, got it? That's off limits."
Fifty years gone and the scandal was still a raw wound. Despite her warning, she eventually opened up. Talk about your fall from grace: on top of the world, furs, yachts, a queen of the lot, on a par with Swanson and Normand, or almost, three years later behind the perfume counter in Macy's. The drinking, the drifting, read it here, folks, nowhere else. The lady will have no more to say on the matter.
Maybelline (she preferred Maisie, her childhood nickname) was never a great actress, but she had a joie de vivre that made up for thespian deficiencies. She played the same adorable hussy over and over. She tried to broaden her repertoire several times, but the public would not have it.
Her celebrated 'copulatory stare', (stolen from Theda Bara was the film colony consensus. Mulot denies it, claims it was the other way around), seems quaint today, the libidinous thrill of those charcoal-rimmed beady eyes is lost to us, desensitized as we are to lust-lite in these triple-X times. Her brazen vamp now seems roll-your-eyes loony, not the daring portrayal it most assuredly was.
I was able to obtain a letter of introduction to the lady, from one who had known her when. Like Garbo, but without Garbo's bucks to cushion the fall, she had chosen to drop out of sight. She could have gone into TV, exploiting the curiosity factor, but she preferred not to deteriorate in the public eye. You'd hear a report of a sighting every now and then, but no solid lead. It took a good bit of sleuthing to track her down.
After a period of probation, she granted an eager film student's request to conduct a series of in-depth interviews. The transcripts of those sessions plus the unexpected access to private photos and mementos form the basis of this piece on the work and life of a pioneer of the cinema, a sadly underrated, all but forgotten artist.
By the way, though she paired with him only once (as both the straitlaced professor of Egyptology Francellia Fortesque and her ancient-era incarnation, the wanton Princess A'isha, in 'Spell of the Siren Sands'), her favorite co-star was the swoon-inducing Rudolph Rodentino.
Ha! I guess that name rings a bell, eh?
__________________________________________
MM took her last breath on June 2, 1988. You might wonder about her unnatural longevity. I sure did. Her answer was, "Clean living, sugar," accompanied by a smirk. Maybe the preparation she did for the role as an Egyptologist (she was a maniac for research) furnished her with the secret of a Biblical, and then some, span of years. We'll never know, will we?
She did not pass alone. I was at her side. I had moved her into my small Jane Street apartment. I had constructed, out of a shoebox, wire, gauze, and miniature silk roses, a replica of the luxurious canopied four poster from "Princess _________", the gift which she had received from the studio at the wrap-up of the production, her first smash hit. Luckily, I had stills to work from. It was a pathetic piece of craftsmanship, but it gave her great joy.
She died in that bed, surrounded by her books and photographs, full of piss and vinegar to the end, her acerbic sense of humor diminished not one iota, bright as ever, a delight to be around. Did you happen to catch the obit in the New York Times? I reproduce it at the end of the book.
It has taken me years to complete this labor of love, and then to find a publisher for it. Interest in the lady was not overwhelming thirty years ago, and her name is even less familiar today. Perhaps it's all for the best. I had originally dealt gingerly with the lesbian affair that ended her career. The world has changed radically since then.
Miss Mulot, knowing that I intended to fashion a book from her reminiscences, begged me to be discreet. Well, the time for discretion is past; it's time to be bold. MM, the invincible, irrepressible, altogether admirable spirit that she was, would certainly agree.
If she were alive today, I don't doubt that she would be game to flash an ancient tit and scream, Fuck You, Mr. 'It's not right. It's just plain wrong' Romney! I'll tell you what's just plain wrong, buster. It's your smug certainty about the way others ought to live their lives. I've heard that crap all my life. I'm sick of it. Sure, wear your magic underwear and welcome to it. Let me do my thing without being condemned, or ridiculed, or lied about. I've had enough of that in my life, too.
She'd let loose with her raucous squeal: "Sweetie, fix me up with a drinkie, eh? (she loved a dry martini with a fistful of celery in it), throw Cole, that scoundrel, on the Victrola (Cole Porter, she knew him, well), a little boogie-woogie will perk us up, kiddo."
Some take a cocktail onion instead of an olive in the libation, in which case it's referred to as a Gibson. She started the fad for a celery stalk stir dunked in vermouth, which was the rage on the Great White Way in her hey-day. It was called a Mulot. I've yet to find this bit of cocktail trivia on Wikipedia. I guess I'll have to insert it myself.
I will speak, by and by, about her obsession with a certain cheese product, a fetish she picked up when she made her final, frankly, sordid stab at salvaging her career in Germany, in Der Glanz Des Heuhaufens, Splendors of the Haystack. Go to one of her wild parties, take her, not a bottle of wine, but a can or a tube of a cheese-goo, you were her pal. I think that was mostly PR, a promotion for those books she self-published, hot stuff for the time. She was one smart cookie.
That's how she got along, on small cons and considerable charm. She used people, but gently. They, mostly, adored it. She said to me once, I'll never forget it, the screwball swiped that bit from me, honest-to-God. So he changed a word, big deal. I have depended on the kindness of suckers, that was my running joke. Mine! People love when you call them a sucker, if you do it to their face. If you happen to be the former ball of fire Maybelline Mulot.
Tennessee, he took me down, plenty. I'd say something gloriously vulgar, he'd whip out a notepad he carried around. I knew what he was up to, but I never called him on it. What did I care? Anyone who knew me knew where he got his juiciest lines. I dined out on it, for years.
I'm what's called a character. I work it, sure I do. Life's a bitch. There ain't no one can't use some comic relief now and again. Folks are generally glad to do for me in return, thank God. It ain't like I can march down to the market and buy my own damn gin.
Martini or two put away, she'd launch into her chicken dance, that's what I called it, (now I think of it as her Big Bird dance) crack-you-up gyrations, dips, twirls and kicks from the 'Bird of Paradise' number she'd performed during her stint on Broadway. I got so I could match her move for move, until we'd both collapse in a fit of giggles.
Good for what ails ya, peoples. The cure for those Up-to-Here/Enough-of-This-Crapola Blues. Get silly. I recommend it.
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Joined: 11/17/2011
Posts: 1016
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This thing is already spinning out of control. I've got no self-discipline. But you know that from Sly.
I wrote this twenty years ago. All has been lost, except for the short introduction, in the course of my messy, messy life and many, many moves.
I hadn't the heart to rewrite it, until I came up with a whole new vision. The life story, the film trivia, the art, yes, I will recreate it all, and I'll add the straight-faced interviews, a la James Lipton, concentrating on the philosophical underpinnings of her approach to her craft. (Acting, not lesbian mouse porn.) That is gonna be a riot.
Fear not, the smut (Anais Nin style, literary) will get it's due dilligence also.
So far, this is easy.
Maisie Mouse is gonna be who she wants to be. It's out of my hands.
I'm not dealing with an intricate plot. It's straightforward independent episodes.
I'm still discovering who she is (this time around) and that's nothing but fun-fun-fun.
And it's nice to have a break from Sly. Though I love the little dickens to death.
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