If Proty I Sacrificed His Life, To Bring Lightning Lad Back From The Dead, How Did Proty II Come Along?????????????????????????????

                                                                                      

              

                                                                                 

                            The cover pictured above, darlings, is what started my fandom with the Legion Of Super-Heroes.  It was Adventure Comics, No. 312, which came out in September of 1963.  Only I never got to read the story, "The Super Sacrifice Of The Legionnaries," though I would read later about it. I first became aware of this issue in Superman, No. 164, which was dated October 1963, but came out long before, as I recall reading it in the car with my parents on one of our Summer trips.

                             Just look at the cover, darlings! The costumes are just bursting with color, which is what gave me my flair for color and fashion, and what drew me to the Legionnaries in the first place. From left to right they are--Mon-El (real name Lar Gand, from the planet of Daxam), Sun Boy (real name Dirk Morgna, who is actually from Earth), Lightning Lass (real name Ayla Ranzz, from the planet Winath, who became Light Lass, shortly after the publication of "Adeventure #312"), Chameleon Boy (real name Reep Daggle, from the planet Durla, who plays an important part in this story), Saturn Girl (real name Imra Ardeen, from the planet Titan, the largest of Saturn's moons), Superboy (real name Kal-El, from the planet Krypton--need I say more?) and, finally, in the enclosed, transparent coffin is Lightning Lad ( real name Garth Ranzz, the twin brother of Ayla and also from Winath).  The costumes on Lightning Lad (the hero I always wanted to be) as well as Mon-EL, Saturn Girl, and Sun Boy, are stunning.

                            The reason Chameleon Boy is so important here, though his appearance and costume are not nearly as impressive, is that his personal pet, Proty I willingly gave up his life, to bring Lightning Lad back from the dead.  Which raises some questions.  Can proteans self-reproduce?  And if so, is that where Proty II came from?  Both Protys were pets of Chameleon Boy, but later on Proty II became Saturn Girl's pet.  Guess he could not resist the costume!!!!!!!!!!!!  He became Saturn Girl's pet right after "The Super Sacrifice Of The Legionnaires."

                           Oh, what tangled webs are weaved when it comes to Silver Age comics history.

                           I wonder how much "Adventure Comics, No. 312" is worth??????????????????

                           Bet I can't afford it.  Oh, well!

                            But those colorful costumes, darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

              

"Yellowface" Slyly Comments On Political Correctness In The American Theater--Past And Present!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              The first thing I need to tell you, girls, is "Yellowface" is performed without an Intermission.  So, make sure your bladder is aware of that.

                                             Next, after the colossal monstrosity that was Jez Butterworth's "The Hills Of California--" I cannot believe it is still running; can you, dolls?--coming to "Yellowface" was so refreshing because David Henry Hwang's take on theatrical and political awareness is so compelling, funny and well-acted by a sterling cast headed by Daniel Dae Kim, that I just sat back in a state of theatrical bliss.

                                                "Yellowface" examines the furor created when the original production of "Miss Saigon," which opened at the Broadway Theatre on April 11, 1991, misguidedly--or did it?--bring over Jonathan Pryce as the Engineer, instead of casting an Asian born actor.  Now, the character is meant to be Eurasian, which means there is other blood in him, but I can see the point.  Ever after, this role has always been cast with an Asian born actor.  I mean, Sondheim got a whole constellation of them together in 1976, with "Pacific Overtures."  You're telling me, the creative staff could not find one?  Especially after finding the sensation Lea Salonga, whom I saw years later when she returned to the show for a brief time?

                                                      Nevertheless, the character is Eurasian, and Pryce was actor enough to have received that season's TONY Award as "Best Actor In A Musical."  I am sure his performance of his signature number, "The American Dream" in on YouTube somewhere, and I advise you to give it a look.

                                                        David Henry Hwang, an accomplished dramatist, presents all sides of the argument, making the activists just as annoying as their detractors.  What is the right or wrong answer?  Is there one?  Hwang does not answer these and other questions; rather he places the evidence before the audience and allows it to make up its mind.  A very smart approach.

                                                            "Yellowface" is stimulating, funny, engaging, but it is never pretentious.  Earlier, I mentioned a Broadway monstrosity which is still running. Its creative staff should head over to the Todd Haimes Theatre, to observe what a well-crafted dramatic work is like.

                                                                Because, darlings, it sure isn't theirs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Megalopolis" Is Not "Metropolis!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Not By A Long Shot!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                                                 

                                    Girls, I am telling you, even if Futurina, the female robot with the lewd wink from Fritz Lang's 1927 film, had appeared in Coppola's mess, yes, she would have livened things up, but not enough to save this movie.

                                     Francis Ford Coppola is finally going off the rails.  He used to make good, or at least halfway decent movies.  But if he thinks this is going to be his magnum opus he is sadly mistaken. The sadder thing is both David and I have heard about this film for years, and the idea that such a prestigious film was playing in our neighborhood made us both excited and suspicious. Nevertheless, we rushed to the Alpine.

                                         We ended up wasting two hours and 18 minutes--138 total--of our lives.  And can't get them back.

                                          I will admit that the visuals--cinematography and art direction--are great.  What is lacking is a cast of performers or a script to back all the artwork up.  I mean, darlings, Adam Driver is so dour, he comes off as a prisoner locked in solitary confinement, having been forced to read the complete works of Joan Didion.  I had no perspective on who his character was, or what he was doing in this film.  The same with the others--Shia La Boeuf, Chloe Fineman, Giancarlo Esposito (all I kept thinking about while he was on screen was that he was in the original Broadway cast of Sondheim's "Merrily We Roll Along," back in 1981, and I saw him in it--twice!), Dustin Hoffman in what amounts to a throwaway role; how disappointing.  However, the best and liveliest performance to come out of this film, unexpectedly, is Jon Voight, who plays his role like a parody of Charles Laughton in 1933's "The Private Life Of Henry VIII."  I think he read the script, threw up his hands, thinking what the hell; he will do as he pleases, and take the job.  Coppola lets him get away with it, and it turns out to be the only sensible decision the director made.

                                              The film is victimized by misplaced ambitions.  Coppola apparently wanted to use NYC as a backdrop, to draw an analogy with the fall of the Roman Empire.  In other words, he wanted to make his explanation of American to itself.  What he was too ignorant or egotistical--maybe both--to realize was that his goal had been achieved almost half a century earlier, by another director in another film--and that was Robert Altman, with his 1975 masterwork, "Nashville."  Which holds up beautifully.  I am certain "Megalopolis" is already on the canned shelf.

                                                Do not, and I repeat, do not waste your valuable time on this insipid crap!

                                                Whether "Megalopolis" turns out to be the worst film of the year remains to be seen.  But, darlings, I can tell you already, it is a top contender!

                                                   Even daughter Sofia was smart enough not to get near this mess!!!!!!!!!

So, What Happened This Past Weekend, Girls??????????????????????

                                 I know you are eager to know, since I have not posted anything since before last weekend.  This post shall explain why.

                                   First off, after breakfast on Saturday, which was also Yom Kippur, I started feeling queasy.  I could have not foreseen what was coming, but more on that, later.

                                     David did his Yom Kippur thing, while I did mine at St. Andrews, where we still do not have a musical director.  Come on, people, get your act together!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                      I marched home to David, who by then was finished with Yom Kippur, and we had a delicious holiday meal.  It sat well with me, which could not be said for the previous two days, where everything was running out of me like a colonoscopy prep.  Which I thought was a MET FORMIN attack.  Or, having dined at JOYA, a Thai restaurant, with our friend, Judy, visiting from out of town.  The last time she was here, she gave David Covid.  Could she have given me something?

                                        Be that as it may, we spent a "Svengoolie" Saturday night, but watching the presentation we taped from last week, when we were in Manhattan seeing "Yellow Face," which I plan to do a post on.  Add to that, "Svengoolie's" current offering was 1966's "The Ghost And Mr. Chicken," and there is NO WAY I recommend a second viewing of this to my girls!  First timers, maybe, but after one viewing, trust me, dears, you have had enough!

                                         Interestingly, both films viewed featured annoying performances by child actors who went nowhere.  The first was Donnie Dunagan, best known for voicing young Bambi, in Disney's 1942 cartoon classic of trauma.  In "Son Of Frankenstein," he plays Peter Von Frankenstein, and is so annoying I was wishing the Monster (played in a final appearance by Boris Karloff) would have tossed him into the boiling sulfur pit.  Well, just for a second.  Unlike Margaret O'Brien, whose Adele in 1944's "Jane Eyre," was a brilliant acting performance, Donnie Dunagan was a natural; unfortunately, not at acting, but being annoying.  Maybe that is why he did better behind the camera than in front of it.

                                             Now, "Son Of Frankenstein" may not have been as much of a gem as the original, and 1935's "The Bride Of Frankenstein," but it had an understated artistry, with its fabulous Expressionistic sets, influenced by German cinema a decade before.  But next to the second feature, the campy 1957 "The Monster That Challenged The World," "Son Of Frankenstein was an artistic masterpiece.

                                              Can you believe, darlings, that Tim Holt was in "The Monster That Challenged The World?  His career sure took a nosedive, for him to appear in this crap.  A better actor than he, Hans Conried, gave the film some needed gravitas.  Audrey Dalton, as the heroine doing a spot on imitation of Faith Domergue it was so apparent that she wanted to be Faith, and that Faith herself must have read the script, and said she was done with such crap.  Wise decision.  Then there is Marjorie Stapp, as pregnant Fifties housewife Connie Blake, who plays her role pretty much as written, though she looks a bit too glamorous for a pregnant housewife.  And once she vanishes from the action, no one knows if Connie had the baby and was OK, or not.  However, the most annoying presence in this film is not the monster--who has the film's most classic moment when it literally walks up to a gatekeeper with his back turned, and when he does, barely has time to scream before the creature kills him!  This is my favorite sequence in the movie, and, especially for first time viewers, this moment is well worth waiting for.  Oh, and don't forget Barbara Darrow, a Jennifer Jones wannabe, as Jody Simms, whose swim in the ocean, curtailed by the monster of course, is not only less screen time than Susan Backlinie as Chrisie Watkins in 1975's "JAWS," but signaled not only her character's death, but that of her career.

                                               As I stated, this film also has an annoying child, and it is renowned Fifties child actress Mimi Gibson, here playing Sandy MacKenzie, daughter of Audrey Dalton's Gail MacKenzie, who is no relation to Constance MacKenzie, from Grace Metalious' masterwork, "Peyton Place."  Sandy may be cute, but she is too inquisitive, always leaving her mother to go and look and poke at the laboratory rabbits, when all they want is to be left alone.  On one occasion, thinking she is doing them a favor, she turns up the temperature in the room, thinking the rabbits are too cold.  Unfortunately, she has no idea about the water tank, which the thermometer is attached too, that contains the retrieved egg of one of these mollusk creatures.  This kid has absolutely no clue to anything; she is never going to take Advanced Placement Biology.  She will be lucky if she ends up as a secretary like her mother.  Of course, the monster hatches, and menaces her, and while Gibson screams on cue, her terror is unconvincing.  Nevertheless, for s second, I wanted to scream at the TV, "This is what you get, kid, for poking your nose where it should not be." Sandy and her mother are rescued, the monster is destroyed, and everything ends well in this campy Fifties romantic atmosphere.  Oh, considering my previous post on "Peter Pan," I am not saying a word about the Mexican restaurant scene, except it has to be seen to be believed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                                  Now, this was the fun part of the weekend.  The dark underbelly began on Saturday, when I began feeling queasy at mass.  Having dined on Thai food Thursday night at JOYA, I thought I was having MET FORMIN attacks.  By Sunday morning, I was not sure this was the answer, as I had a loud rumbling stomach, no appetite, and the runs!  I did not feel like doing much during the early part of the day.  At my sister's suggestion, we got some Pepto Bismol, and I began taking it, with something seeming to shift.  But I was not ready for a piping hot plate of lasagna--no way!  I did feel like reading a book, and you know what I read, and it mysteriously, comforted me?  And in a single sitting?  It was the demonic classic "Rosemary's Baby," by Ira Levin.  Let me tell you, darlings, it still holds up, and when I read the dialogue, I can hear, in my head, the voices of all the actors from the 1968--the one and only--film.  Face it, dears, only I would find some kind of comfort in "Rosemary's Baby."  No, I am not in a coven or joining one, but I am preoccupied with this story, planning to view the film on DVD this Halloween, revisiting the story so I can be ready to write about its alleged prequel, "Apartment 7A," which is correctly the number of the Castevets' apartment.  I will be sure to tell you about it when I view it, girls; I am not expecting too much.

                                                          So, that was my weekend, darlings, a series of ups and downs, in which I also learned that, during this period, my sister had a worse time than I did.

                                                            And, girls, I am not suggesting looking upon "Rosemary's Baby" as a panacea for illness.  Rather, turn to whatever makes you feel comfortable at the time.

                                                              Hope your weekend was better than mine, dears!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just Look At This Gorgeous Photo, Darlings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Doesn't It Conjure Up A Desire To Fly Off To Neverland???????????????

                           Girls, it sure does with me.  Though, strictly speaking, I would prefer going Alice's way to Wonderland--going down a rabbit hole, without getting my dress or hair ruined.  Imagine flying over Bay Ridge, or Manhattan, seeing NYC the way our late friend, Flaco, the owl, did.

                             The reason this "Peter Pan" photo came up was via an article deriding the film for its racist, sexist views.  Darlings, the film was made back in 1953.  Can't we just enjoy its brilliant artistry?  This is one of the Disney animated classics I have NOT seen--1951's "Alice In Wonderland" is still my favorite--but would love to.  The artwork in the animation outshines all attempts today, which is why films of this vintage should be viewed or acknowledged for their virtues, not for conforming to a period of time that could not have been foreseen back then.  This goes for many films too numerous to mention.  I mean, art should be enjoyed for the pleasure it gives us, rather than what it conforms or doesn't conform to.

                              I would love to have this photo emblazoned wall size on the ceiling of my bedroom!

                              What an image to fall asleep to!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Girls, You Simply Have To Attend "Puddles' Pity Party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

                         I mean, if you want Camp Extraordinaire, this is it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                        Join Puddles The Clown on his YouTube podcasts, as he sings outrageous songs, and just has a grand old time camping it up.  Hons, I cannot wait to hear his take on "Don't Cry Out Loud."  When the circus comes to town, this baby sure will know it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                           This is the most stylish, inventive entertainment I have come across in a long time.  Whether you want to camp it up, or wallow in your own pity party, with Puddles, I recommend it as time well spent!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                              And remember, darlings, "baby can't be broken!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

How Long Has It Been, Darlings, Since You Read "The Scarlet Ibis?" Or Have You?????????????

                               If not, girls, you really should.

                              I first came across this story in a short story anthology I wish I still had called "Night In Funland."  It also had this story, the original "Flowers For Algernon," by Daniel Keyes, and Stephen Vincent Benet's "Too Early Spring."

                                 James Hurst's story, which was first published in The Atlantic Monthly in July of 1960, is vague in its details, which is why I think it endures. It is the only thing Hurst is noted for.  The parents are little more than figureheads, while the main characters are the narrator, referred to only as "Brother," and his younger sibling, William Armstrong, who comes to be nicknamed "Doodle."

                                  Doodle's diagnosis is never given, but my guess is he was born hydrocephalic, (water on the brain, with an enlarged head) has a weak body, making it unable for him to walk easily, and a heart condition.  I instantly sympathized with Doodle.

                                     The narrator, who is writing this is looking back on his childhood, not unlike Scout in Harper Lee's "To Kill A Mockingbird."  The mood is Southern Gothic.  As the boys grow older, Brother becomes Doodle's keeper, and he takes on the role, but with underlying resentment.  As time goes on, Brother takes it upon himself that he is going to teach Doodle to walk, run, swim and play like other boys.  He succeeds with the first, but it is lack of success with the rest, plus excessive pride on Brother's part that sets up the tragedy.

                                        One day, while they are out, a thunder and lightning storm comes up.  Brother urges Doodle to keep up, but the overexertion from training, leaves him weakened.  In what I felt was an act of cruelty, Brother leaves Doodle behind, his plaintive cries echoing.  When a bit later, he returns to find Doodle, he finds him dead, with blood pouring out of his mouth.

                                           The blood is symbolic.  Earlier in the story the family spies a Scarlet Ibis in a tree in their yard.  The aunt who lives with them says this is a bad omen--this bird must have gone off his path and is in an area his species normally does not inhabit.   And auntie is right, because look what happens.

                                             That is the story.  I know, get out those hankies, girls.  I cried just thinking about it.  But what I wonder is why the narrator who has some remorse, as he writes this story looking back, takes no account of the fact that he murdered his own brother?  If he had stayed with Doodle, I do not think Doodle would have died.  With Brother leaving him, he died not only of over exertion, but fright, and probably a heart attack.

                                              How could the author, James Hurst, overlook this aspect?  Or did he choose to, leaving the reader to decide?

                                                Meanwhile, what of the parents?  How grief stricken they will be, when they find Doodle is dead.  And how will they deal with their older child?  I wonder.

                                                   But I have no doubt that "Brother" is guilty of murder.  Maybe not with intent, but murder, nevertheless.

                                                    What do you think, darlings?????????????????????