Sybil Bruncheon’s Christmases Past... 1919...

… of course, everyone knew how beautiful and polished the elaborate Disney franchise became with its Oscar winning films, its glorious amusement parks, and brilliant licensing and entertainment achievements!... very few people remembered Walt Disney's much earlier days... when Mickey and Minnie Mouse were still in the experimental phase... and everything had a slight German expressionist feel to it... Walt's first silent film was MICKEY UND MINNIE TREFFEN DEN WEIHNACHTSMANN IN DR. CALIGARIS DUNKLEM LOCH (1919). No prints or negatives have been found.

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…” (Part Four)

Doorway Mystery GAME by Evgeny Lushpin.jpg

1990: …. How could I ever really be cross with my landlady, no matter how often she barged through my life? Her bonhomie, generous spirit, and basically goodhearted though mischievous sense of humor won me over every time, and what about her bringing me the most heartbreakingly delicious samples of her baking and cooking? I didn’t go a single day without a basket filled with too many croissants for breakfast, the crock full of bubbling Boeuf Bourguignon a la Bretagne for lunch, or the Charlotte Russe Flambée, the Mousse Madeleine aux Macarons à la Noix de Coco, or the Crème brûlée à la Goyave for desserts or for late night snacks. I had put on at least twelve pounds in the last few months, and I managed to cover it with my painter’s smock, although she took great delight in pinching my midsection and pointing it out to neighbors laughing when I would pass her on the front stoop.

About a week after she told me the story of Veronique, Mme. P invited herself up to my garret for dinner… and what a dinner she brought! I had no idea we were spending a charming soirée together until I got home from painting all day on the Place du Tertre. I was slightly surprised not to see her doing her usual chores at that hour; sweeping the front stoop, watering the pots of crimson geraniums, the icy white “million bells”, and the dwarf morning glories in twilight blue on the window sills and hanging on the walls around the old paneled front door, or gossiping with her comrades… often about stoop-sweeping or flower pots… or the ultimate; food. As I said, there was no sign of Mme. P, and I began to trudge up the stairs lugging my French artist case with the little collapsible easel attached that old Monsieur Lapingris had gifted me (it had been his grandfather’s). I adored that case, covered with dents and dings, and a hundred loving drips and splashes of paint that lived on the cityscapes that Lapingris’ grandfather had done back in the 1890s. That case had character and, I hoped, good luck and inspiration in its bones for me and my career. As I neared the top floor, I was greeted warmly by Mme. P’s lusty alto humming, quite lovely actually, like a bassoon, coming from my front door which stood slightly open… and the smell of what turned out to be Pâté de Canard en Croûte. She had set the little chestnut country table off the kitchenette with a blue and white checked tablecloth, cotton napkins folded like bird-of-paradise blooms, and a mismatched assortment of old but beautiful silver, some of which might actually have been somewhat valuable. She was typically French in that regard… living comfortably and unselfconsciously with mixes of antiques hundreds of years old and junk and flea market finds bought for a few francs.

She heard me creak the floor at my entryway, and beckoned me in with a hearty flourish as if it was her home and those were her candles that she was lighting in the sconces and candelabra. I must admit I would have been delighted for her company, even if there hadn’t been a delicious dinner included. Mme. P definitely did bring a joie de vivre into my rather grey life. No matter how much I tried to be grateful for my sabbatical in the most beautiful city in the world, it was truly Mme. P who made it almost something out of a movie! Week after week, day after day… and sometimes hour to hour. And those hours stretched into lifetimes… no! Not stretched! That sounds as if they were tedious… No, they FILLED into lifetimes. Each of her stories, told over candlelight and a sumptuous meal of tastes that I had never before imagined became a new alternate lifetime for me. Another lifetime filled with its own sights, sounds, smells; its own characters with their hopes, dreams, fears, and sometimes, secrets… their secrets alone swamped and blotted out the bland reality of my small life. I guess my eyes revealed all this, because she stopped her merry humming and came very close to my face, her deep blue eyes turning lavender in the candle glow… and she smiled… so gently. “Does someone want a story?”… and I said, “yes.”…

1950: Phillipe Mansard stood at the edge of the terrace filled with all the love a man’s heart could hold for the lovely wife humming at the stove inside. The heavy rich smell of étouffée wafted out of the door that sat ajar, and he looked first at the glow from the living room and then back again over the street. She came out behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and it seemed the whole world was theirs as they looked down from their perfect perch above the fray of the city, out of the way and seemingly forgotten. Forgotten now, but only a few years earlier, with Paris overrun with the German army and at the complete mercy of its Gestapo and God knows how many collaborators, Phillipe and Celeste Mansard played their part in a shocking turn of events that changed history. And it had been her idea. Behind those flashing green eyes, it had been her idea.

For it was during the occupation that they joined the French Resistance, not as saboteurs or spies exactly… but as cooks. With a reputation so exclusive that only the highest officers and officials were able to partake of their gourmet fare. They had already attended the finest schools, apprenticed in and then owned the best restaurants, and built a network of fellow chefs across the country. And cleverly, they decided at the first signs of France falling to the German onslaught, to appear to capitulate, to actually embrace their invaders as favored customers. So clever were they that their Nazi patrons were never suspicious of their true motives, nor were their French suppliers and neighbors ever in doubt about their true and secret loyalty.

And so, on the stormy evening of June 5th, 1944, the Mansards and their cadre of fellow chefs across the French countryside invited their various “special” German diners to partake of a “Fête à l'été”, A Feast for the Coming of Summer. Chefs in over a dozen towns and villages had been planning, shopping, and preparing for weeks; coordinating their orders and strategies in seemingly innocent but coded grocery lists and shared recipes, all by telegram, and right under the noses of their tragically gullible enemies. The Nazi high command was so flattered to be fawned over so lavishly, they never suspected. And so, on that dreadful evening, with wind howling and rain pummeling the city in sheets, the Mansards welcomed their soaked but grateful guests into their rooftop maisonette for a dinner never to be forgotten. They had asked several of their suppliers to come help serve the many courses. Two wine merchants were the sommeliers, the fishmonger, two bakers, and the cheese merchant served as waiters… and four of Phillipe’s butchers were to help Celeste in the kitchen. Phillipe would act as host and raconteur, and oh, how charming he could be with friend and foe alike. He had been a brilliant student as a young boy; the pride of his parents. And his talent in history was especially noted. Imagine his teachers’ and parents’ shock when he quoted Machiavelli… in Renaissance Italian; “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.” Revenge is a dish best served cold.

As the lights were dimmed, and the candles on the table and in the wall sconces were lit, the champagne was poured for the eight Nazi officers, now in their T-shirts as their uniform tunics with their bright ribbons and twinkling medals hung up to dry in the toasty pantry. How grateful they were for the informal hospitality and friendship that the Mansards had always shown them. Phillipe clinked his glass with a sterling fork to propose a toast and a salute to his “guests”. First he smiled that unforgivably handsome smile that had broken the hearts of dozens of young girls in his youth, but had won him the heart of the luminous Celeste in his manhood. He flattered his guests and thanked them for coming out on such an awful night, and then brought everyone to gales of laughter when he noted the irony of the tempest outside and the banquet being a celebration of the coming Summer, remarking especially on the word “Fête”… feast.

The candle flames flickered merrily as if they too were in on the joke, and then with a flourish, he concluded with “La vendetta è un piatto che va servito freddo.”… His guests raised their glasses and drank deeply, not quite understanding the Italian, or was it Greek?… or noticing that their host’s staff had come out from the pantry and kitchen, and from the terrace outside… carrying knives, a mallet, two hatchets, and the heavy coal shovel. By flickering candlelight and with the rain pouring in sheets down the windows and skylights, no neighbor would ever have been able to see what unfolded… even if anyone had bothered to look. And the roar of the wind, the pounding of the rain, and the rolling thunder muffled the brief cries of agony and terror that could never penetrate the tightly closed windows of the surrounding homes. Ah well… It was over soon enough… at 8:15 or so… and in every one of the other shuttered cafés, private dining salons, and cozy maisonettes that had hosted their own Fêtes à l'été in other parts of the countryside… with the same unforgiving and implacable conclusions. While Frenchmen and women and their children sheltered on that stormy night, huddling around cozy fires and delicious dinners, and then off to bed, never suspecting how the world would change over the next few hours… in certain kitchens, basements, butcher shops, and then finally on the beaches of Normandy.

You see, in the appalling and astounding turmoil of D-Day, no one had time to notice or figure out what had happened to over 100 important Nazi officers and Gestapo officials. It was assumed that they had been swallowed into the maelstrom of the greatest invasion that the world had ever seen. They were either among the dead or the deserters… whatever. But oh, the rippling consequences of those vanished 100… confusion, miscommunications, orders not followed or even given. The crumbling chain of command, the avalanche of missing reports and missed opportunities, panic-driven gossip, rumors… oh, the consequences as the outside world threw all its resources and a generation of young men onto the shores of Normandy.

Meanwhile, each household of conspirators “processed” their guests into a luxurious array of delicacies; either as entrées and appetizers in their restaurants, or as fine sausages, pâtes, and meats for baguette lunches. Any and every part was used, just as slaughtered livestock would be. “Sweetbreads” to soup bones… all of it. ALL of it… And all of it given exclusively and generously to German soldiers and officers over the coming weeks as their fortunes faded and began to reverse. What a lovely gift from their French sympathizers. How comforting. Something to write home about to their grateful mothers in the Fatherland. 

Now, only a few short years later, Phillipe would often drift in reverie doing his gardening. How could five years feel like five lifetimes? Was it that even in simplicity, his life was so rich, so full with his beautiful and brave Celeste? Dicing the shallots, making the bed, laying the tablecloth, or playing cards with friends, he often wondered… “If only the world knew that its very existence was due to the woman sitting here playing bridge.”

As he finished weeding the little planters of their dead twigs and crumbling leaves, Monsieur Mansard looked over his work with a sigh of melancholy as a small tear of nostalgia trickled down his stubbled cheek… His lovely wife, returning again from the kitchen, saw his sweet tired face and whispered, "Dormer vous?". He smiled at her funny little pun… the kind that she would try on him in their special language that old married people share after so many years of worries, joys, triumph and loss… “Monsieur Mansard, dormer vous?” she repeated. And he nodded, rising slowly, putting his arm around her, and padding off to their bedroom with its little crackling fire. Celeste suddenly caught herself, slipped out of his strong arm, and went back to the door to the terrace. She closed and latched it against the chilly air, and looked up. If only the fog and mist would clear so that perhaps she could see through the skylight to the stars above, but all she could do was watch the neighbors' cat walk across it and disappear into the darkness of the night. And then, as the first snowflakes beginning to collect on the skylight. “Yes”, she thought as she pressed her hand to her tummy. “Tonight is a lovely night to tell him about the baby.”…

(End of Part Four. Stay tuned for Part Five of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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A New Sybil Bruncheon's "WHO'Z DAT?"... BRIGITTE HELM (March 17, 1906 - June 11, 1996)

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Darlings! Mummie has made a decision! After reading dozens of posts and having hundreds of conversations with well-meaning folks who just don't know about the great CHARACTER actors who gave films the depth and genius that surrounded and supported the so-called "stars", I am going to post a regular, special entry called "SYBIL'S WHO'Z DAT?"....there'll be photos and a mini-bio, and the next time you see one of those familiar, fabulous faces that you just "can't quite place".......well, maybe these posts will help. Some of these actors worked more, had longer and broader careers, and ended up happier, more loved, and even wealthier than the "stars" that the public "worships". (I think there may be a metaphor in that! What do you think???). And speaking of “character” actors, Mummie is going to introduce everyone to the concept of a “character LEAD”!! ….and this person was one of the greatest stars overseas. She had the advantage of being both beautiful and very talented, and was unafraid of stretching herself to fully inhabit her roles. She’s Brigitte Helm (March 17th, 1906 – June 11th, 1996).

          Born Brigitte Eva Gisela Schittenhelm in Berlin, Germany, she was the daughter of a Prussian Army officer who died when she was a toddler. She grew to be a serious, idealistic boarding school student with plans to become an astronomer, but she appeared willingly enough in school plays to please her friends and mother. In fact, Helm regarded acting with Prussian disdain as an immoral occupation on its face and had no plans to pursue it as a career.

         Then her mother, who had no such notions, sent her daughter's photograph to the screenwriter, Thea von Harbou, the wife of Fritz Lang. Brigitte, who was just 17 when she was tricked into taking a screen test, was suddenly on her way to stardom. Lang cast her as the female lead in his early masterpiece, METROPOLIS (1924), then the most expensive German film ever made. She later became the most sought-after actress of the glory days of the German film industry, a tall blond beauty who starred in more than 35 movies and set directors against one another in the competition for her services. Ms. Helm was regarded as such a perfect embodiment of the era's ideal of cool sophistication that when she turned Josef von Sternberg down for the starring role in "Blue Angel," he had to settle for Marlene Dietrich. Yet for all the acclaim she received, Ms. Helm could never eclipse the role, or rather roles, in which the good Maria, an oppressed working girl, is transformed into an evil robotic doppelganger of herself in Fritz Lang's "Metropolis."

        Even today, 90 years after it was released, METROPOLIS is not only a cult classic, it is regularly listed among the half-dozen most important films ever made. This is a tribute, to be sure, to Lang's grotesque science-fiction vision, and the array of fabulous special effects he used to bring it to the screen. The film depicts the world of 2006, a time, Lang envisioned, when a ruling class lives in decadent luxury in the lofty heights of skyscrapers linked by aerial railways, while beneath the streets slave-like workers toil in unbearable conditions to sustain their masters.

        But for all the steam and special effects, for many who have seen the movie in its various incarnations, including a tinted version and one accompanied by music, the most compelling lingering image is neither the towers above nor the hellish factories below. It is the startling transformation of Ms. Helm from an idealistic young woman into a monstrous robot and then to a barely clad creature performing a lascivious dance in a brothel and corrupting every man who sets his eyes on her. While he may not have been the sadist many of his actors made him out to be, director Fritz Lang was such a hard-driving perfectionist that Ms. Helm, who worked virtually every day for 18 months, often hanging upside down or standing in water up to her waist for hours at a time, found the experience excruciating.

After one torturous ordeal, when she wondered why a double could not have taken her place during the nine days it took to shoot a scene in which she is encased in a metallic robot shell, her face obscured, Lang haughtily claimed an auteur's creative sensibility. "I have to feel that you are inside the robot," he said. "I was able to see you even when I didn't." After the movie made her an overnight star, Ms. Helm, who had her own artistic standards, refused to make another movie with Lang. Helm was one of those stars that made a successful transition to sound, but refused to abandon Germany for Hollywood. METROPOLIS financially ruined UFA (Berlin’s major film studio, the Universum Film-Aktien Gesellschaft), but it made Brigitte Helm an overnight success. UFA gave her a ten-year contract and wanted to typecast her as a man-eating vamp: she twice had to play ALRAUNE (1928- the silent version, and again in 1930-the sound version). A science fiction horror story, Alraune is the legendary woman born of the seed of a hanged murderer artificially placed in the womb of a whore, who drives men to their deaths. But by 1929 she had already attempted to refuse all vamp roles. She took UFA to court and lost; the trial cost her a fortune and after that she acted mostly in order to pay off her debts.

In addition to many mediocre and sometimes downright bad films, the director G.W. Pabst gave her some great acting opportunities. In THE LOVES OF JEANNE NEY (1927) she plays a helpless blind woman who is seduced by a rogue. In CRISIS (1928), she portrays a spoilt woman of the world who from sheer boredom almost destroys her own life. They included L’ARGENT (1928), GLORIA (1931), THE BLUE DANUBE (1932), L’ANTLANTIDE (1932), and GOLD (1934)

In her films of the early 1930s Brigitte Helm became the embodiment of the affluent, modern woman. With her slim figure and austere pre-Raphaelite profile, she seems unapproachable, a model fashion-conscious woman, under whose ice-cold outer appearance criminal energies flicker. Ms. Helm was regarded as such a perfect embodiment of the era's ideal of cool sophistication that when she turned Josef von Sternberg down for the starring role in BLUE ANGEL (1930), he had to settle for Marlene Dietrich. Later on, Helm was considered for the title role in THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN (1935) before Elsa Lanchester was given the role.

Her role as the Hoschstaplerin ("The Deceiver") in DIE SCHONEN TAGE VON ARANJUEZ (The Beautiful Days of Aranjuez) (1933) was reprised in 1935 by Marlene Dietrich in the film DESIRE. In the G.W. Pabst film L’ATLANTIDE (1932), Helm plays an opaque, static goddess, the mere sight of whom makes men crazy. Her power is not of this world, but incomprehensible, magical. This was Helm's last really great role, a legendary mysterious sphinx of the German cinema. Helm acted in 29 German, French and English films.

But just as suddenly as she had emerged, she disappeared again. At the height of her success, she had told one critic that her whole film career was a matter of indifference to her and that she would much rather be a housewife: to cook, bring up her children and look after her husband. After a few bad press reviews of her later films and a car accident, for which she was sentenced to a brief jail sentence, she withdrew into her private life. In 1935, disgusted with the Nazi takeover of the film industry, she abruptly quit, marrying an industrialist, Hugo von Kunheim, himself a Nazi opponent, and Jewish. Helm incurred the wrath of Nazi Germany for "race defilement" by marrying him. She withdrew from the cinema, and she and her family fled to Switzerland. From then on she never appeared on stage, film or on television, and she refused all invitations and turned down almost all requests for interviews. She lived the rest of her life quietly there in Switzerland, and died on June 11, 1996. She was 90 years old. She was survived by her four sons.

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Sybil Bruncheon's "ON THIS DATE... 1917"...

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Boys and Girls, did you know that long before Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or even Annette Funicello became Mouseteers, Walt Disney had created his special club for children. Sadly, it was in response to the horrors of World War I, and the club was invented with the Top Secret US Army Special Operations Forces. Here we see Clive Turnbyl and Phelicity Jabb (both 12) behind French battle lines, fully equipped with their state-of-the-art "Hear-It-All-Telescopic-Mustard-Gas-Detectors" ready to post alerts to the troops should the Germans begin another round of their fiendish warfare. When spotted in their bunkers by the Germans, it was assumed the children were doing musical morale shows for the troops. Interestingly, Disney didn't name his mouse characters Mickey and Minnie until ten years after the war concluded... prior to that, American military agents knew them only as Jedediah and Gretchen-Patrice Rattinski. It was George Marshall who told his pal Disney that "the names stink! Think of something happier!... with an M... for Marshall!"... And that was on this very date. Back in 1917!

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