Scene: the community hall attached to South Pasadena Public Library. A long, high ceilinged room, windows high up on the left as you look at the stage, capacity around 200.
Doors open 6.30 for 7pm start. At 6.25 there is a polite, quiet line stretching from the door down the steps and out into the path through the greenery, maybe 30 people waiting. Our friend Jim Dawson is sitting in one of two curving stone seats either side of the entrance, so we take the opportunity to join him and probably jump the line a little. Edgar Bullington joins us, standing and chatting.
Dead on 6.30 the doors open and we file in firmly but in an orderly manner. We grab half a row of seats and another couple for Bobb Lynes and Barbara Watkins.
At 6.48 a side door opens - and there is the star, Ernest Borgnine himself, with that trademark wide gap-toothed grin, wearing a powder blue safari shirt. He milks the applause, which lasts about half a minute, then walks to the stage. He clearly intends to get started, but an official whispers in his ear that there is music first.
'Do you want to hear some jazz?' he yells. The audience, realising the situation, agrees.
So Borgnine's real appearance is delayed by 20 minutes or so while a young girl sings a few jazz classics such as All of Me, to a piano accompaniment. She sings well, but is too young to be credibly singing songs designed for someone with more life under their belt.
We are next given some clips of Borgnine hits, including Marty, which won four Oscars - Best Film, Director, Screenplay and Actor.
Finally Borgnine reappears, as cheerful as before, but flanked by fussing aides and a so-called moderator who is to handle the Q&A. An English-accented video company executive who ploughs through the career credits of Borgnine and his inquisitor. Happily, the star brushes aside all this nonsense and does his own thing, brilliantly and with real rapport with the audience. He is a natural star - as he should be, after more than 50 years on camera.
Recounting his Oscar win, he couldn't remember who gave it to him - 'that actress who became a princess'. 'Grace Kelly,' fans prompted. 'That's right,' he said, 'look - I'm 91, what do you want?!'
He didn't get on well with the director Richard Brooks, who dismissed Borgnine as 'one of those Goddam thinking actors' when he suggested how to play a scene. Next day Brooks began: 'OK Mr Borgnine, what do you have in mind for this scene?'
He beat Frank Sinatra to the Oscar, as well as James Dean, but he and Sinatra became friends and he recalled how the legendary singer paid for the actor Lee J Cobb to be taken to Sinatra's house in Palm Springs. 'Why did you do this?' asked Cobb. 'Because I like the way you work,' Sinatra replied.
The Poseidon Adventure, one of the biggest films of all time, nearly didn't get made because of a newly-promoted Paramount executive who tried to block it and was later sacked.
Borgnine has just finished shooting Another Harvest Moon in Harrisburg, PA - he said 'It's the state capital, you don't need to go there!'
On 3D: 'You just sit around longer for all the set ups and that's good, because you get paid for the extra time.'
Yes, it's true he used to get on a horse in westerns by climbing a set of steps - 'Bring on the horse, bring on the stairs!' adding that John Wayne used to do the same.
On the second day he was filming Marty, on location in the Bronx, someone asked him 'Are you the guy who killed Sinatra?' After many explanations that it was just only a film, Borgnine (real name Borgnino) was in danger of getting seriously beaten up, so in desperation he said 'I'm Italian!' and was swamped with pizza and salami, etc. But the original thug muttered 'I still think we ought to beat the he'll out of him....'
He is a great fan of Abraham Lincoln, and told us how he picked up a painting of Lincoln for ten dollars off a street market. The next day the stallholder tried to buy it back 'for a museum', he said.
Borgnine shrewdly held on to it, and was subsequently told it could be worth as much as $5 million. He has a room in his house devoted to Lincoln, whom he regards as a great source of 'calmness'. It is a rare solemn moment in an evening that was full of fun.
And no one asked him about his latest appearance on youtube.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
LA theatres: Hollywood v Downtown by Bill Kay
It's a punishing schedule, but someone's got to do it: on Friday I went to the Kodak Theater, home of the Oscars, to see British comedian Eddie Izzard, and last night I was at the Million Dollar Theater in Downtown for tenor Michael Kleitman's Tribute to Pavarotti. Two very different experiences, and not just in what was happening on stage.
The Kodak, is next to Grauman's Chinese Theater and is set into the Hollywood and Highland shopping centre, one of LA's biggest tourist traps. It takes the modern approach of fleecing the punters for all it can get, so best to eat and drink beforehand. The full house was a mixture of Angelenos, tourists and Brits who live in the area. Izzard made few concessions to American ignorance, but most of his more obscure jokes were enthusiastically received. Mind you, he was wise enough to lay into Bush, which got some easy applause, and came out surprisingly strongly for Obama - but again, he had got his audience right and they loved it.
The Million Dollar, which was built for that price in 1918 by Sid Grauman before he moved westwards and built the Egyptian and Chinese on Hollywood Boulevard, is an old-fashioned theatre which the LA mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, hopes will lead a revival of Broadway - something which I don't think will happen without driving out his fellow Latino shopkeepers. Meanwhile, though, this theatre is not yet into full ripoff mode: the front stalls tickets cost about the same as for the balcony in the Kodak - around $55 - and the charmingly unadorned snacks counter was selling bottled of Pepsi for a not too bad $4. Oddest of all was a sweet stall in the men's loo, presumably a Latino custom as they run the theatre: bar of chocolate with your loo paper, sir? It was more surreal than anything Izzard could invent.
Russian-born Kleitman has been touring with his Pavarotti show for some time, so it was surprising how badly presented it was. To save on an orchestra, he relied on recorded music which was sometimes as crackly as an old phonograph. And Pavarotti he is not: his voice is much thinner and has less range. The contrast was starkest in his attempt at Nessan Dorma. Kleitman fell way short of Pavarotti and indeed is much more in the style of Jose Carreras.
But the audience lapped it up. They were, as you would expect, much older than Izzard's, few tourists, plenty of Russian supporters. I don't think they filled the theatre, judging by the 30% off promotion they were running last week (to my annoyance, as I got only 10% off about a month ago).
Thankfully we were spared any standing ovations until the very end. Instead, from half-way through the first half, there was a regular flow of middle-aged ladies waddling to the front of the stage with bouquets which Kleitman seemed genuinely surprised and embarrassed to receive.
I'd have loved to see what Izzard would have made of the Million Dollar.
The Kodak, is next to Grauman's Chinese Theater and is set into the Hollywood and Highland shopping centre, one of LA's biggest tourist traps. It takes the modern approach of fleecing the punters for all it can get, so best to eat and drink beforehand. The full house was a mixture of Angelenos, tourists and Brits who live in the area. Izzard made few concessions to American ignorance, but most of his more obscure jokes were enthusiastically received. Mind you, he was wise enough to lay into Bush, which got some easy applause, and came out surprisingly strongly for Obama - but again, he had got his audience right and they loved it.
The Million Dollar, which was built for that price in 1918 by Sid Grauman before he moved westwards and built the Egyptian and Chinese on Hollywood Boulevard, is an old-fashioned theatre which the LA mayor, Antonio Villaraigosa, hopes will lead a revival of Broadway - something which I don't think will happen without driving out his fellow Latino shopkeepers. Meanwhile, though, this theatre is not yet into full ripoff mode: the front stalls tickets cost about the same as for the balcony in the Kodak - around $55 - and the charmingly unadorned snacks counter was selling bottled of Pepsi for a not too bad $4. Oddest of all was a sweet stall in the men's loo, presumably a Latino custom as they run the theatre: bar of chocolate with your loo paper, sir? It was more surreal than anything Izzard could invent.
Russian-born Kleitman has been touring with his Pavarotti show for some time, so it was surprising how badly presented it was. To save on an orchestra, he relied on recorded music which was sometimes as crackly as an old phonograph. And Pavarotti he is not: his voice is much thinner and has less range. The contrast was starkest in his attempt at Nessan Dorma. Kleitman fell way short of Pavarotti and indeed is much more in the style of Jose Carreras.
But the audience lapped it up. They were, as you would expect, much older than Izzard's, few tourists, plenty of Russian supporters. I don't think they filled the theatre, judging by the 30% off promotion they were running last week (to my annoyance, as I got only 10% off about a month ago).
Thankfully we were spared any standing ovations until the very end. Instead, from half-way through the first half, there was a regular flow of middle-aged ladies waddling to the front of the stage with bouquets which Kleitman seemed genuinely surprised and embarrassed to receive.
I'd have loved to see what Izzard would have made of the Million Dollar.
It's a gas gas gas says Bill Kay
One of the features of Southern California that I find most appealing is its child-like ability to go into obsession mode at the drop of a hat - or anything else that happens to be in their hand at the time. Currently it’s gas - petrol to Brits.
I know, it’s still half the price it is in Britain, but we have had a severe shock over here. When I landed just under two years ago, a US gallon (the British Imperial gallon is 20% bigger) cost $2.50 or less. It was recently as high as $4.40, although it has declined a little with the oil price.
So it’s the speed of the jump that has sent Americans into overdrive, so to speak. The price has been creeping up in the past decade, but not at a pace that most Angelenos noticed. You filled a tank for may $50, grabbed the receipt so you could claim it against tax (many more can here than in UK) and hit the freeway without a care in the world.
Now, though, you’d think we were in the middle of a world war with rationing just around the corner. TV news runs stories about a gas scam that you would think a 10-year-old would see through. Crooks steal credit cards then stand around filling stations offering petrol half-price, taking cash using the stolen card to pay for the fuel! I suppose people reckon they will be miles away before the villains are arrested, but they have clearly forgotten about CCTV and the fact that their number plate identifies them as accessories to a pretty obvious crime.
Back on the legit side of the fence, it is amusing to see Americans adopting British ways of coping with high fuel costs. People are walking their dogs instead of driving them to the nearest park. Others boast of going in for “Euro-style shopping”, which means they buy a carryable bag of groceries on their way home every couple of days instead of driving 30 miles to Costco and filling the Hummer with bulk quantities of pap. Farmers markets are booming, as are neighbourhood restaurants.
The LA Times today leads its Business section with first-person reports by two of its staffers who have moved into flats downtown, within walking distance of the office. Amazingly, they are saving money! They are losing weight! They are talking to neighbours!
My hunch is that it won’t last. Like the stories in London about middle-class people shopping at Primark, the novelty will wear off. Downtown LA is like a graveyard at night and at weekends - full of spooky people. I bet those flat-dwellers will be bumming invitations off their pals in the valleys for BBQs and pool parties. The lure of the SUV will be simply too strong.
I know, it’s still half the price it is in Britain, but we have had a severe shock over here. When I landed just under two years ago, a US gallon (the British Imperial gallon is 20% bigger) cost $2.50 or less. It was recently as high as $4.40, although it has declined a little with the oil price.
So it’s the speed of the jump that has sent Americans into overdrive, so to speak. The price has been creeping up in the past decade, but not at a pace that most Angelenos noticed. You filled a tank for may $50, grabbed the receipt so you could claim it against tax (many more can here than in UK) and hit the freeway without a care in the world.
Now, though, you’d think we were in the middle of a world war with rationing just around the corner. TV news runs stories about a gas scam that you would think a 10-year-old would see through. Crooks steal credit cards then stand around filling stations offering petrol half-price, taking cash using the stolen card to pay for the fuel! I suppose people reckon they will be miles away before the villains are arrested, but they have clearly forgotten about CCTV and the fact that their number plate identifies them as accessories to a pretty obvious crime.
Back on the legit side of the fence, it is amusing to see Americans adopting British ways of coping with high fuel costs. People are walking their dogs instead of driving them to the nearest park. Others boast of going in for “Euro-style shopping”, which means they buy a carryable bag of groceries on their way home every couple of days instead of driving 30 miles to Costco and filling the Hummer with bulk quantities of pap. Farmers markets are booming, as are neighbourhood restaurants.
The LA Times today leads its Business section with first-person reports by two of its staffers who have moved into flats downtown, within walking distance of the office. Amazingly, they are saving money! They are losing weight! They are talking to neighbours!
My hunch is that it won’t last. Like the stories in London about middle-class people shopping at Primark, the novelty will wear off. Downtown LA is like a graveyard at night and at weekends - full of spooky people. I bet those flat-dwellers will be bumming invitations off their pals in the valleys for BBQs and pool parties. The lure of the SUV will be simply too strong.
The best tip is to tip by Bill Kay
You’ve reached the end of a satisfying meal. You are nicely full without bursting. The couple of glasses of wine have gone down nicely. You may even have indulged in a liqueur. Life has dissolved into a pleasant haze. Then the bill arrives.
You knew it was coming, of course, because you almost certainly asked for it. All the same, this is the moment of sobering reality, when that blue or black folder lands, containing the business end of the evening.
Let’s assume that you haven’t been charged for anything you didn’t receive, and that the total is not wildly out of line with what you expected. The question remains: do you tip, and if so how much?
This is a world-wide question. Providers of service expect to be paid over the odds, often for doing no more than their job. After all, unless you are remarkably flush (or pretentious) you don’t tip the chef who produced your meal - so why tip the flunkey who walked it maybe ten yards?
This is an increasingly tricky issue in LA, where everyone who can is getting in on the act. It poses particular problems for an expat like myself, because it is not always easy to be sure whether you are being taken for a ride or confronted with a genuinely different custom.
I don’t know about you, but in London I never tip if I am collecting a takeaway meal from a restaurant. As far as I am concerned, I’m the one doing the waitering. I also hated the aggressive attitude of some of the people who delivered meals to my door, so I eventually stopped ordering that way. But in LA, in both cases you are politely presented with a bill which, surprise surprise, leaves room for a tip and the total blank.
Is it the local practice to tip then? So far I have stuck to my British habit and no one has given me a hard time as a result, but the only way to find out is to ask friends. The answer, so far, is to ignore the tip.
But, coming back to the end of our excellent restaurant meal, the moment the bill arrives can be deeply divisive. I go to dinner most Mondays at a scruffy diner in Pasadena, where a floating group of anywhere between 4 and 24 friends pitch up and at the end we get our own bills.
It’s not a fortune, $10 to $20 a head for burgers, salad, steak and chips, that sort of thing, and the same smiling waiter serves us all. But we discovered that some tip generously, some meanly, some a nominal $1, and some not at all.
After reading the latest US book on tipping - Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica -I would think twice about not doing so, especially if you are intending to return to the scene of your crime. Dublanica was a waiter in New York, where restaurants notoriously take no prisoners.
I have been chased to the door by a Manhattan waiter who had calculated that I left less than the “minimum” of double the sales tax: on US menus the prices are shown net of tax, which is usually around 8.5%. Doubling that to 17% sounds a lot, but it works out very close to the 10% UK diners add to a bill already inflated by VAT.
There are basically six reasons people don’t tip:
They think the service was bad
They aren’t returning to the restaurant, so see no reason to be nice to the waiter
They object to tipping in principle, as demeaning to both waiter and customer
They think it’s a ripoff that they should pay on top of the menu prices
They think why pay when I don’t have to?
They’re mean
Personally I normally prefer to tip the standard amount, and a little over the odds if I have had good service. I scrub the tip completely only if it is obvious that I have had a bad meal, and the restaurant knows it.
But how you tip, or don’t, tells you a lot about yourself - as does a lot of discretionary spending. Know thyself before thou risketh ye serving lout spitting in thy soup.
You knew it was coming, of course, because you almost certainly asked for it. All the same, this is the moment of sobering reality, when that blue or black folder lands, containing the business end of the evening.
Let’s assume that you haven’t been charged for anything you didn’t receive, and that the total is not wildly out of line with what you expected. The question remains: do you tip, and if so how much?
This is a world-wide question. Providers of service expect to be paid over the odds, often for doing no more than their job. After all, unless you are remarkably flush (or pretentious) you don’t tip the chef who produced your meal - so why tip the flunkey who walked it maybe ten yards?
This is an increasingly tricky issue in LA, where everyone who can is getting in on the act. It poses particular problems for an expat like myself, because it is not always easy to be sure whether you are being taken for a ride or confronted with a genuinely different custom.
I don’t know about you, but in London I never tip if I am collecting a takeaway meal from a restaurant. As far as I am concerned, I’m the one doing the waitering. I also hated the aggressive attitude of some of the people who delivered meals to my door, so I eventually stopped ordering that way. But in LA, in both cases you are politely presented with a bill which, surprise surprise, leaves room for a tip and the total blank.
Is it the local practice to tip then? So far I have stuck to my British habit and no one has given me a hard time as a result, but the only way to find out is to ask friends. The answer, so far, is to ignore the tip.
But, coming back to the end of our excellent restaurant meal, the moment the bill arrives can be deeply divisive. I go to dinner most Mondays at a scruffy diner in Pasadena, where a floating group of anywhere between 4 and 24 friends pitch up and at the end we get our own bills.
It’s not a fortune, $10 to $20 a head for burgers, salad, steak and chips, that sort of thing, and the same smiling waiter serves us all. But we discovered that some tip generously, some meanly, some a nominal $1, and some not at all.
After reading the latest US book on tipping - Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica -I would think twice about not doing so, especially if you are intending to return to the scene of your crime. Dublanica was a waiter in New York, where restaurants notoriously take no prisoners.
I have been chased to the door by a Manhattan waiter who had calculated that I left less than the “minimum” of double the sales tax: on US menus the prices are shown net of tax, which is usually around 8.5%. Doubling that to 17% sounds a lot, but it works out very close to the 10% UK diners add to a bill already inflated by VAT.
There are basically six reasons people don’t tip:
They think the service was bad
They aren’t returning to the restaurant, so see no reason to be nice to the waiter
They object to tipping in principle, as demeaning to both waiter and customer
They think it’s a ripoff that they should pay on top of the menu prices
They think why pay when I don’t have to?
They’re mean
Personally I normally prefer to tip the standard amount, and a little over the odds if I have had good service. I scrub the tip completely only if it is obvious that I have had a bad meal, and the restaurant knows it.
But how you tip, or don’t, tells you a lot about yourself - as does a lot of discretionary spending. Know thyself before thou risketh ye serving lout spitting in thy soup.
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