The Tomorrow Man
Lithgow and Danner show us characters who may qualify for Medicare but are every bit as vulnerable and as eager to matter to someone as…
Carrie Snodgress had invited her parents to join her for the Thursday fashion luncheon at the Pump Room, and now they were looking at a model wearing something long and slinky from Saks Fifth Avenue.
MALIBU, 1970 -- The door flew open from inside, revealing Lee Marvin in a torrid embrace, bent over Michelle Triola, a fond hand on her rump. "Love!" he said. "It's all love in this house. Nothing but love. All you need is love . . ."
HOLLYWOOD -- "Make a reservation at Le Bistro," Groucho Marx said over the telephone. "And make sure you make the reservation. I went there once with some schnook from Life who thought you could walk right in. And for God's sake make sure it's even open on Sunday. If it isn't, make a reservation at the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel. To me it's just a device to get a free lunch. If I mention 'Minnie's Boys,' it will be strictly by accident. And for God's sake don't bring along any gadgets, any of that electronic gear...."
Calling yourself the author of the year's biggest novel,'' Erich Segal said, "is like calling yourself the world's greatest newspaper. It makes it sound like nobody else will say it for you, so you gotta say it for yourself . . . "
NEW YORK -- They said making a movie about Woodstock was like . . . three days without sleep. The cameramen all wired together, with Wadleigh shouting instructions over the earphones. And Don Lenser crying during the Airplane's set, crying because he was right there on top of them, he practically had his camera shoved down Grace Slick's neck, he was practically in her mouth, and all that noise pounding through him, surrounded by banks of loudspeakers - big mothers! - and crying, you could hear him crying over the earphones, crying because he wasn't able to move because he had to hold the goddam camera steady...
Pat Boone (you once made him cry when you said good-by) will be 36 in June, and he wears fancy leather spats these days instead of the white bucks, but his face is still unlined, his eyes are still bright, his voice is still clear and he still keeps the faith.
Alfred Hitchcock waited in a deep chair by the window, like a judge in chambers preparing for a last word with a strangler. The pale morning sunlight struggled into the room and collapsed at his feet. It was a grey morning, a foggy Chicago morning. On such mornings, he said, he is reminded sometimes of the Acid Bath Murders...
The phone rang a week ago and the guy on the other end said he was a movie producer. He was home for Thanksgiving to visit his folks in Evanston, he said, and he thought he'd give me a call. His name was Rick Herland.
"Hey, man, my wife and I were up until 7 this morning, rapping about things," Michael J. Pollard says, lighting a Camel and taking a mouthful of coffee.
Sinking into an overstuffed chair in Studs Terkel's apartment with her legs curled beneath her, Doris Lessing looked small, vulnerable (and in the best sense) catlike. It was Sunday afternoon and she was sipping brandy and listening to stories about Studs' trip to South Africa. And you thought: So this, after all, is Doris Lessing. And the next moment you thought: Of course.