The Fundamental Things Apply, As Time Goes By
Oh, I long to be a 1940s film star. To speak in that old accent that is so refined, so warm, and so still touched with that genteel, almost English inflection. And, when it were required, to sing in a smoky voice, the piano and strings weaving together with it to make such a feeling of romance and magic. And if I had to dance, to dance in the most beautiful dress.
All class and dignity and mystery. Skin smooth, hair all soft and shapen, eyes glistening in the moonlight or lamplight or, well, in no light at all. A glass of somethin' balanced between two fingers of one hand, a cigarette between two in the other. Wrapped in fur, or diamonds, something that sparkles or shimmers, shines in the blacks, whites and greys. When I'd speak it'd be in that voice, low and wonderful and almost tangible - never simpering or small, but sultry, carrying in it a real sense of strength and style. I'd ask for a light. Always almost over my shoulder, eyes inclined slightly upwards, because all the men are slightly taller, and all so dashing.
But so few of them are decent. They give a girl a romance and promises of forever, but none of them ever stay. They never last in the end.
They make their romantic gestures, all of them, but one can't rely on them for a happily ever after. Mister Bogart skulks in the shadows, sweet little Jimmy Dean pouts and dares and looks oh so divine, oh so desperate and oh, so devastating. But he, he was never too concerned with winning the heart of a young lady. Far to much turbulance for room to romance. And Marlon Brando, well, Mister Brando is handsome, and strong, and very, unmissibly masculine - but he's a brute. Unpredictable and raging, he's all fiery tempers and cold, cold shoulders, all unfathomable and all screaming my name from the ground below as if it's the only thing keeping him alive. The only thing that's keeping his mind from falling to pieces and his body from tearing the world apart.
My mother has promised Gregory Peck next. She says he isn't beautiful, but is a prescence. Is tall and imposing, and is decent. That'd be nice. A decent man to hang some faith on. A girl needs something to put her faith in. Men don't often stand the test. Seems to me that, in the end, she ends up with only herself to rely on, only herself to get her by. Leaving her to depend more on strangers than those she knows. The men never really get them anywhere, but there is some sweet, sweet music playing along the way. And in the end, when the alley is empty and the players have walked off alone into the fog, there's music and magic and bleakness to break your heart and punch your guts. And, if not that, the full, sweet voices at least linger on; their permanance giving some small sense of solace.
But we know it's how it's meant to be. There's always a sad, strange justice in there somewhere, as frustrating as it is to not be able to change the things that would be so much easier to change now. To be the woman, strong and sturdy but with so little control of the world, in love with the man, who has only that tiny bit more. To have so much more than that on her plate that the camera can't quite penetrate, and that she never really says. The story will always be linear, set in stone. With the obligations and duty, the status and propriety, and the circumstances that are so very out of our control, all we can do is throw our whole hearts in, little by little, and hope that things will turn out for the best.
Why? Well, because. Because, altogether, oh, altogether it's all just so wonderful.
All class and dignity and mystery. Skin smooth, hair all soft and shapen, eyes glistening in the moonlight or lamplight or, well, in no light at all. A glass of somethin' balanced between two fingers of one hand, a cigarette between two in the other. Wrapped in fur, or diamonds, something that sparkles or shimmers, shines in the blacks, whites and greys. When I'd speak it'd be in that voice, low and wonderful and almost tangible - never simpering or small, but sultry, carrying in it a real sense of strength and style. I'd ask for a light. Always almost over my shoulder, eyes inclined slightly upwards, because all the men are slightly taller, and all so dashing.
But so few of them are decent. They give a girl a romance and promises of forever, but none of them ever stay. They never last in the end.
They make their romantic gestures, all of them, but one can't rely on them for a happily ever after. Mister Bogart skulks in the shadows, sweet little Jimmy Dean pouts and dares and looks oh so divine, oh so desperate and oh, so devastating. But he, he was never too concerned with winning the heart of a young lady. Far to much turbulance for room to romance. And Marlon Brando, well, Mister Brando is handsome, and strong, and very, unmissibly masculine - but he's a brute. Unpredictable and raging, he's all fiery tempers and cold, cold shoulders, all unfathomable and all screaming my name from the ground below as if it's the only thing keeping him alive. The only thing that's keeping his mind from falling to pieces and his body from tearing the world apart.
My mother has promised Gregory Peck next. She says he isn't beautiful, but is a prescence. Is tall and imposing, and is decent. That'd be nice. A decent man to hang some faith on. A girl needs something to put her faith in. Men don't often stand the test. Seems to me that, in the end, she ends up with only herself to rely on, only herself to get her by. Leaving her to depend more on strangers than those she knows. The men never really get them anywhere, but there is some sweet, sweet music playing along the way. And in the end, when the alley is empty and the players have walked off alone into the fog, there's music and magic and bleakness to break your heart and punch your guts. And, if not that, the full, sweet voices at least linger on; their permanance giving some small sense of solace.
But we know it's how it's meant to be. There's always a sad, strange justice in there somewhere, as frustrating as it is to not be able to change the things that would be so much easier to change now. To be the woman, strong and sturdy but with so little control of the world, in love with the man, who has only that tiny bit more. To have so much more than that on her plate that the camera can't quite penetrate, and that she never really says. The story will always be linear, set in stone. With the obligations and duty, the status and propriety, and the circumstances that are so very out of our control, all we can do is throw our whole hearts in, little by little, and hope that things will turn out for the best.
Why? Well, because. Because, altogether, oh, altogether it's all just so wonderful.