Animal regulation series, Di Liu
I made this poster for uni. I was inspired by film noir movie posters and pulp fuction covers from the 1940s and 50s like “This Gun For Hire” and “The Lady From Shanghai”.
via The Midnight Party (1938, dir. Joseph Cornell)
“Among the barren wastes of the talking films there occasionally occur passages to remind one again of the profound and suggestive power of the silent film to evoke an ideal world of beauty, to release unsuspected floods of music from the gaze of a human countenance in its prism of silver light.”
-Joseph Cornell, Enchanted Wanderer
The song was originally written for and recorded with Gainsbourg’s then girlfriend, Brigitte Bardot, in winter 1967. Bardot asked him to write the most beautiful love song he could imagine, and that night he wrote “Je t’aime”
They recorded an arrangement of “Je t’aime” by Michel Colombier at a Paris studio in a two-hour session in a small glass booth; the engineer William Flageollet said there was “heavy petting”. However, news of the recording leaked to the press and Bardot’s husband, German businessman Gunter Sachs, was angry and publicly called for the single to be withdrawn. Bardot pleaded with Gainsbourg not to release it, and although he protested that “The music is very pure. For the first time in my life, I write a love song and it’s taken badly”, he complied.
A Beautiful Child - An account of an afternoon spent with Marylin Monroe, by Truman Capote.
TC: Now do you think we can get the hell out of here? You promised me champagne, remember?
MARILYN: I remember. But I don’t have any money.
TC: You’re always late and you never have any money. By any chance are you under the delusion that you’re Queen Elizabeth?
MARILYN: Who?
TC: Queen Elizabeth. The Queen of England.
MARILYN: (frowning) What’s that cunt got to do with it?
TC: Queen Elizabeth never carries money either. She’s not allowed to. Filthy lucre must not stain the royal palm. It’s a law or something.
MARILYN: I wish they’d pass a law like that for me.
TC: Keep going the way you are and maybe they will.
MARILYN: Well, gosh. How does she pay for anything? Like when she goes shopping?
TC: Her lady-in-waiting trots along with a bag full of farthings.
MARILYN: You know what? I’ll bet she gets everything free. In return for endorsements.
TC: Very possible. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. By Appointment to Her Majesty. Corgi dogs. All those Fortnum & Mason goodies. Pot. Condoms.
MARILYN: What would she want with condoms?
TC: Not her, dopey. For that chump who walks two steps behind. Prince Philip.
MARILYN: Him. Oh, yeah. He’s cute. He looks like he might have a nice prick. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Errol Flynn whip out his prick and play the piano with it? Oh well, it was a hundred years ago, I’d just got into modeling, and I went to this half-ass party, and Errol Flynn, so pleased with himself, he was there and he took out his prick and played the piano with it. Thumped the keys. He played You Are My Sunshine. Christ! Everybody says Milton Berle has the biggest schlong in Hollywood. But who cares? Look, don’t you have any money?
TC: Maybe about fifty bucks.
MARILYN: Well, that ought to buy us some bubbly.
(Outside, Lexington Avenue was empty of all but harmless pedestrians. It was around two, and as nice an April afternoon as one could wish: ideal strolling weather. So we moseyed toward Third Avenue. A few gawkers spun their heads, not because they recognized Marilyn as the Marilyn, but because of her funeral finery; she giggled her special little giggle, a sound as tempting as the jingling bells on a Good Humor wagon, and said: “Maybe I should always dress this way. Real anonymous.”As we neared P.J. Clarke’s saloon, I suggested P.J.’s might be a good place to refresh ourselves, but she vetoed that: “It’s full of those advertising creeps. And that bitch Dorothy Kilgallen, she’s always in there getting bombed. What is it with these micks? The way they booze, they’re worse than Indians.”
I felt called upon to defend Kilgallen, who was a friend, somewhat, and I allowed as to how she could upon occasion be a clever funny woman. She said: “Be that as it may, she’s written some bitchy stuff about me. But all those cunts hate me. Hedda. Louella. I know you’re supposed to get used to it, but I just can’t. It really hurts. What did I ever do to those hags? The only one who writes a decent word about me is Sidney Skolsky. But he’s a guy. The guys treat me okay. Just like maybe I was a human person. At least they give me the benefit of the doubt. And Bob Thomas is a gentleman. And Jack O’Brian.”
We looked in the windows of antique shops; one contained a tray of old rings, and Marilyn said: “That’s pretty. The garnet with the seed pearls. I wish I could wear rings, but I hate people to notice my hands. They’re too fat. Elizabeth Taylor has fat hands. But with those eyes, who’s looking at her hands? I like to dance naked in front of mirrors and watch my tits jump around. There’s nothing wrong with them. But I wish my hands weren’t so fat.”
Another window displayed a handsome grandfather clock, which prompted her to observe: “I’ve never had a home. Not a real one with all my own furniture. But if I ever get married again, and make a lot of money, I’m going to hire a couple of trucks and ride down Third Avenue buying every damn kind of crazy thing. I’m going to get a dozen grandfather clocks and line them all up in one room and have them all ticking away at the same time. That would be real homey, don’t you think?”)
(…)
MARILYN: Remember, I said if anybody ever asked you what I was like, what Marilyn Monroe was really like—well, how would you answer them? (Her tone was teaseful, mocking, yet earnest, too: she wanted an honest reply.) I bet you’d tell them I was a slob. A banana split.
TC: Of course. But I’d also say…
(The light was leaving. She seemed to fade with it, blend with the sky and clouds, recede beyond them. I wanted to lift my voice louder than the seagulls’ cries and call her back: “Marilyn! Marilyn, why did everything have to turn out the way it did? Why does life have to be so rotten?”)
TC: I’d say…
MARILYN: I can’t hear you.
TC: I’d say you are a beautiful child.
