iGuanaGaL's Blog

Origins: Sam, the above-pictured canine, is a 14-year-old pedigreed Chinese crested owned by Susie Lockheed of Santa Barbara, California. In June 2005, Sam won the "World's Ugliest Dog" title at the Sonoma-Marin Fair contest for the third consecutive year.

The Associated Press described Sam thusly: The tiny dog has no hair, if you don't count the yellowish-white tuft erupting from his head. His wrinkled brown skin is covered with splotches, a line of warts marches down his snout, his blind eyes are an alien, milky white, and a fleshy flap of skin hangs from his withered neck. And then there are the Austin Powers teeth that jut at odd angles.

He's so ugly that even the judges recoiled when he was placed on the judging table.

Unfortunately, Sam is suffering from a number of age-related ailments (congestive heart failure, lung and kidney problems) and will probably make no more public appearances, so he may have to cede his "World's Ugliest Dog" crown in next year's competition.

Subject: Film Commentary: The Pawnbroker - Rod Steiger

Film Basics

THE PAWNBROKER (1965) B/W widescreen 114m dir: Sidney Lumet w/Rod Steiger, Geraldine Fitzgerald, Brock Peters, Jaime Sanchez, Thelma Oliver, Marketa Kimbrell, Baruch Lumet, Juano Hernandez, Linda Geiser, Nancy R. Pollock, Raymond St. Jacques, John McCurry, Charles Dierkop, Eusebia Cosme, Warren Finnerty.

From The Movie Guide: THE PAWNBROKER, one of the seminal American films of the 1960s, focuses on Sol Nazerman (Rod Steiger), a middle-aged concentration camp survivor who lost his entire family to the Nazis and now runs a pawnshop in Harlem.

Directed by Sidney Lumet in a gritty, raw style that was fashionable at the time. THE PAWNBROKER is memorable today for its innovative use of flashbacks --- in this case quick cuts lasting only a fraction of a second --- to represent the disturbing, unrelenting flashes of Sol's memory.
Also unforgettable is Steiger's towering performance as the volatile survivor, a powder keg of hateful remembrances. The soundtrack was composed by Quincy Jones.

Steiger was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar.

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iGuanaGal's Commentary:

After viewing this film on Turner Classic Movies this evening, I found myself still riveted to the story by Steiger's impassioned performance as Sol Nazerman ... going over the various scenes in my head again and again.
Most of the reviews for this film either seem to serve as a vehicle for showing off the reviewer's vast film knowledge by obscure references to other lesser-known films, or discuss the plot in such detail that they give away all the surprise elements in this film - for despite it's gritty, low-key pace there are quite a few surprising and shocking revelations that will come your way in getting to know what has made and what fuels Sol Nazerman. I would not have enjoyed the movie half as much with most of the plot revealed to me prior to viewing.

One of the most glaring things left out of every single review I read about The Pawnbroker was the term Film Noir. While the actual subject matter of The Pawnbroker may not fit what one would describe as classic film noir (crime, romance, detective themes, etc.) this movie fits the genre in every other way: the dark, gritty and starkly contrasting black and white seedy depiction of New York's Spanish Harlem; dreary interior scenes of Nazerman's dusty, relic-filled pawnshop; dramatic close-ups of Steiger's character as he attempts to go through the movements of his day to day existence; and the creative and unique use of intense yet very brief flashbacks that show us what has made him the seemingly strange and very bitter man he is at the time of the filming. While the Pawnbroker's setting is in a crime-ridden
neighborhood filled with pimps and criminals, they pale by comparison to Steiger's character's true demons.

This film has merit on so many different levels: Steiger's nearly silent suffering protagonist, who says more with his body language and facial expressions than one might believe any actor could muster; an intense 60s jazz soundtrack by the renowned Quincy Jones; Sidney Lumet's masterful direction; Boris Kaufman's brilliant black and white cinematography; and was one of the first American films to directly address a central character's Holocaust memories.

The Pawnbroker is nothing like Schindler's List, though the similarity in subject matter may be there, the resemblance also ends there, as well. The Pawnbroker is an intensely personal, one-on-one glimpse into Sol Wasserman's private life and psyche. The torments he suffers are shown to us through his eyes only, through his memories and not by anything on a larger scale. That larger scale comes in to play in the viewer's mind after the film ends - and is not neatly tied up with a large budget production ribbon that does the thinking for you. This film is a must-see for all true film lovers who appreciate the work of art that all the principals involved successfully created.

iGuanaGaL

by JESSICA KIDDLE


DUMPING someone with whom you have shared intimacy can be painful enough. Far worse is the anguish of being dumped. Little wonder, then, that when the end of the affair arrives, many of us feel moved to put in writing feelings we are rendered incapable of uttering.

From Anne Boleyn to Anaïs Nin, putting pen to paper endures as a popular form of delivering a lover's parting shot. Now such missives from women across the centuries have been collated in a new anthology, Hell Hath No Fury, and, as these extracts show, the hurt remains the same.

ANAÏS NIN TO CL BALDWIN

Writer and diarist Anaïs Nin had frank words for poet CL Baldwin, who strayed outside his marriage to have an affair with her, only to return to his family in 1945: "I have no time for dead relationships. The day I discovered your deadness my illusion about you died and I knew you could never enter my world, which you wanted so much. Because my world is based on passion... that is why I am happy and full of power. But in the middle of this fiery and marvellous give and take, going out with you was like going out with a priest. The contrast in temperature was too great. So I waited for my first chance to break - not wanting to leave you alone."

JACQUELINE SUSANN TO IRVING MANSFIELD

Writer, TV and film star Susann wrote this Dear John letter to her producer/publicist husband after he was drafted into the army in 1943: "When we were at Essex House and I had room service and I could buy all my Florence Lustig dresses, I found that I loved you very much, but now that you're in the army and getting $56 a month, I feel that my love has waned."

REBECCA WEST TO HG WELLS

The journalist, novelist and critic Dame Rebecca West spent a decade as the companion of novelist HG Wells, to whom she wrote the following paean of self-immolation when he tried to end their affair in 1913: "During the next few days I shall either put a bullet through my head or commit something more shattering to myself than death. At any rate I shall be quite a different person... I don't understand why you wanted me three months ago and don't want me now. I wish I knew why that were so. It's something I can't understand, something I despise... You've literally ruined me. I'm burned down to my foundations."

JESSICA TO SCOTT

Jessica, 20, a college student, wrote the following in 1998 to her ex Scott, after discovering he was already married: "I am done being your doctor, your mom, your psychologist and I am through being your friend. Miss me yet? You should. You will. So take care and f*** off."

CINDY CHUPACK TO RICK

The Sex and the City producer wrote this e-mail to her friend Rick, who ccompanied her to parties in 2001: "I'm getting some slightly confusing signals from you, but I'm pretty sure you just want to be friends because A)you haven't kissed me yet and in fact, you seem downright adverse to it, B)you talk about other women a lot... So if you just want to be friends, let's just be friends and not do date-like stuff, because then I end up wanting to kiss you, and then you don't, and then I just feel stupid."

CATHERINE TEXIER TO JOEL ROSE

These words were originally published in Texier's book Breakup: The End of a Love Story, forming a letter to her former husband Joel, who left her for his editor in 1996: "Three AM Friday morning... I wake up with the brutal, nshakeable conviction that you are having an affair... So I decide to finally face the truth. I get up and check around the house to see if I can find any evidence of your betrayal. And here it is, so easy to find: a bunch of receipts from the summer including expensive hotels... HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU???"

HELENE VERIN TO LUKE

In 1995, Verin, a product designer in New York, had a passionate year-long reationship with Luke, until he told her he wanted to explore his "homosexual fantasies": "I should have known. Your good taste, swimming medals, love for Vanessa Daou, fridge full of caviar and champagne... Well f*** you and the last year... You say you're 'bi' - I say 'bye bi'."

LEIGH L TO MAX

Los Angeles writer and filmmaker Leigh L wrote a series of letters to ex-boyfriends whom she had met between 1991 and 2001: "Thank you for breaking up with me. My mother said you were the ugliest guy I've ever gone out with. Thank you for sucking the energy out of eight months of my precious life. Thank you for nothing at all."

ANNE BOLEYN TO HENRY VIII

In 1536, Boleyn wrote what is said to be her last letter before her execution to husband Henry VIII after he accused her of bewitching him into marriage and denying him a son following her second miscarriage: "To speak a truth, never a prince had a wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Bulen [sic]... Try me good king, but let me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and as my judges... Then you shall see either my innocency cleared, your suspicions and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared."

ANNE SEXTON TO TORGIE

In 1945, at the age of 16, the American poet signed off to Torgie, a boy she had met at summer camp, with: "I wouldn't marry you even if you had $100,000,000... You think you are a gentleman with your effect of polished clothes and mannerisms, but a true gentleman is one that has a kind and humble heart... It's too bad, Torgie, that you know the price of everything and the value of nothing."

Hell Hath No Fury, edited by Francine Prose, is published by Carroll &
Graf

this is mean .... this is sadistic ... this is hilarious !!!!

War Games
by CKR

Right now I work in an office with only two people, so unfortunately, I have limited resources for work-time fun. Instead, I create it myself.

I currently have a competition going with the midget cleaning lady that tidies up the women's room. I have an obsession with blowing my nose. No, I don't do coke, I just like to have free and clear nasal passages. As a result, I use a ton of Kleenex, maybe a box every week to week and a half. My habit can get pretty pricey, because regular Kleenex is no longer good enough. I need the kind with built-in lotion, and you guessed it, for one reason or another, my lovely office building provides it. They supply us with toilet paper that feels like sandpaper, but the Kleenex is top notch.

One day my usual supply from Walgreen ran out, and it was pouring rain outside. Not about to ruin my new suede pumps for some moisturizer tree products, I went into the women's room and grabbed a few of those deliciously soft tissues. The box was nearly empty, so I figured, "What the hell?" and took the rest. Not five minutes later, I was happily ensconced in my tilt and swivel desk chair, when the cleaning lady walked by my door to restock the supplies in the bathroom. I don't think she was expecting to see the Kleenex box not only empty, but missing entirely. She had to make a special trip back to the supply closet to load up.

The next week, I ran out again, so again, I went to the ladies room and took the box of Kleenex. Skip a week ahead and repeat one more time. As I went to lift the box out of the holder, I noticed a little note written in broken English on top of the box.

"Tissue here for ladies - you no remove. Property of bathroom."

Now, the last time I checked, bathrooms, being more or less inanimate objects, can't retain or own property. Perhaps in Mexico they can, but not in Chicago. I took this as a sign to take the box anyway, and left a Post-It with a smiley face in its' place. Each time I take the box, I leave some kind of note or doodle. Yesterday it was a big pair of lips drawn in pink hi-liter. I can't help but giggle every time I see my gal shuffle off the elevator past my door to replace yet another box of contraband Kleenex.

Please lord, send me some coworkers so I can stop tormenting Guadalupe.