Dad, 1924-2006

When I started this blog back in 2004, I made the decision to refrain from using the site to discuss personal matters. Who I was was of little importance (hence the creation of the Filmbrain persona) -- it was first and foremost a film blog, and I had little desire to reveal any details of my life outside of film interests. Yet I'm going to break with tradition and share a few memories of my father -- a man for whom film was a lifelong passion, and who passed away on Saturday, 18 February, aged 82. Film was already present in my father's life at birth -- his mother was a minor stage and screen actress (back when the studios were still in New Jersey) who I've been told possessed the kind of beauty that drove men insane. When he was still a young boy, she tragically took her own life after being caught up in a tabloid sex scandal. As a child my dad loved going to the pictures (as he called them), and he never forgot his first film experience -- Cecil B. DeMille's Dynamite. Though he was probably too young to fully comprehend DeMille's romantic farce, he was forever hooked on film. Several years after the death of his mother, my father found himself with a new stepmother -- a woman who didn't much care for children, and who made his life very difficult. As soon as he was old enough, he joined the army, as an escape from his unpleasant home life. My father never once talked about his time in WWII, other than to say he was in the South Pacific. (A die-hard pacifist who deplored violence, I can only begin to imagine what he experienced there.) After returning from the war and finishing college, he moved into Manhattan, where he moved into a swinging bachelor pad on West 52nd St., close to the jazz clubs he often frequented. (Dad's stories of 52nd Street in the be-bop era were endlessly fascinating.) He began his film career as a clerk at Columbia Pictures, which is where he also met my mother. He eventually moved over to Universal Pictures, where he remained until his retirement in the early 90s. Many of my strongest childhood memories of my father involve film. Birthdays were always special, as each year dad would bring home a 16mm print of a Universal classic. I'll never forget my 9th birthday party -- a group of about twenty kids huddled together on the floor, dumbstruck, as we were horrified and mesmerized by The Incredible Shrinking Man. Weekends were often spent in one of New York's (then) many revival cinemas -- and it was there that I received my first formal film education. We worked our way though musicals, film noir, screwball comedies, etc. He taught me the differences between the moguls, and how to spot a Warner Brothers picture from an MGM (or any other studio.) I learned the strengths and weaknesses of all the major leading actors and actresses, and why Fred Astaire was cooler than all the rest. I saw awful prints of Bergman, Rossellini, Godard, and Kurosawa at the Theater 80 St. Marks, avant-garde shorts at MOMA, and silent comedies at the Bleecker Street cinema. Dad moved to Hollywood after he and my mother split up, where he became more involved with the production side of the business. Though he loved life on the lot, his heart was always in New York. He moved back right after retirement, all set to spend his golden years in the city he loved so. But after only one year, he suffered a stroke that left him sound in mind, but not in body. Though his physical limitations frustrated him, he still managed to keep as active a lifestyle as he could, which included trips to the cinema, but not nearly as often as he would have liked. He became more politically active, especially since Bush came to power, and did his part to voice his protest against the regime and the war in Iraq. Against better judgment, he took part in the massive protest that was staged in the summer of 2004 during the Republican National Convention. Conversations with my father, especially in the last two years, were almost always about film. He was proud of the blog, and would often seek out the films I wrote about. (He also did fairly well on the screen cap quizzes.) We disagreed about many contemporary Hollywood films, but he'd often have a compelling argument in their defense. When my father was first admitted into the hospital a few weeks ago, I never imagined the end was so near. In fact, our last full conversation was about the Oscars -- he asked me if I thought Brokeback Mountain would sweep the awards. I told him I thought it would. When I asked him what he thought of the film, his response was, "William Wyler would have done it better". That was my father. I'm going to take a little time off -- will be back in a week or so.

Comments

[that little round-headed boy]

I was truly touched by your posting about your father. It's good to remember that somebody taught all of us fans to adore movies, and often it was somebody very close to us. My condolences to you and your family. And your dad was right about Wyler.

[Tuwa]

I'm so sorry to hear about your father. It sounds like you had some thought-provoking conversations and a good relationship, which must have been a blessing. Deepest condolences.

Take care, and take all the time you need--

[Robert Nagle]

Wow, I'm still amazed to hear that your father actually read your blog. (My parents have expressed absolutely no interest in anything I write on the web--hey, that's life! ).

The span of his life encompassed many eras of film, including the time film was (and remains) the preeminent genre. Surely, film isn't going away soon, but I can't help feeling that videogaming will eventually overtake it at some point. Maybe when we are 60 or so, all this hooplah about the latest interactive fad will seem incomprehensible to us, although I guess we'll adjust to it somehow.

Another random thought: I realize father and son are probably different in many important respects, but imagine if your father started blogging away about film when he was 30 or so all the way until his death (imagine what a fascinating historical document that would be!). If you're up to doing it, I'd actually be curious to hear what his fave films were over time.

I remember reading some book or watching some TV show where a character realizes how little she knows about her father. She didn't even know what his favorite films were, for example. Lucky for you that you got to know this side of his very fully.

Thanks for sharing and good luck.

[matthew]

my sincere condolences. your blog, it seems, not only this heartfelt piece of writing, but your blog, in general, is a fitting, loving tribute to your father. take care.

[Herve Girod]

Your father seemed to be a wonderful person.

Condolences, Filmbrain.

[Brian]

Most sincere condolences, Filmbrain.

[steve]

My sincere condolences.

[dvd]

I appreciate that you've shared this with your readers, FB. This post and the comments following it are proof that blogs aren't merely soapboxes; they're channels of sincere expression, expresison which can be reciprocated. Best wishes, and looking forward to your return...

[Andrei]

Beautiful tribute. It sounds like your father had the kind of life some people can only dream about. I'm sorry to hear of your loss.

[Zach]

I'm verry sorry to hear this, FB. My condolences.

[Campaspe]

Thank you for pulling aside the curtain for a moment, to show us the incredible person who helped form your taste and your intellect. I am so terribly sorry for the loss of a man who brought such grace and color to your life. My heart goes out to you.

[matteo]

.

[Solo]

Herzliches Beileid.

[Steve C.]

Wow. Sorry to hear that. That's a fine tribute you've written up. My condolences.

[Tim]

Deepest sympathies... but it sounds as if you have many happy memories to comfort you.

TIA MAK

[Austin]

Thanks for sharing this important moment with us. Keep your head up.

[Jay McRoy]

My thoughts go out to you. I read your blog regularly, and I found this piece very moving. Thank you for sgaring in what must be a difficult time.

[Jay McRoy]

That would be "thank you for sharing." Sorry for the typo.

[Mubarak Ali]

What a moving piece of writing, Filmbrain. My sincerest condolences.

[fortuitous faery]

i'm very sorry to hear about your loss. please accept my prayers and deepest condolences.