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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!