Sybil Bruncheon's "I'm A Fan of Fabulous Films"...

I love thrillers!... suspense films that make you completely forget you're sitting in a movie theatre with hundreds of strangers or tucked into a blanket shivering away on your sofa in the dark! And there are so many different variations on the thriller genre; science fiction, horror, serial killers, slasher films, who-dunnits... oh, the list goes on and on! Here are a few of my favorites, and I would have added another ten or twenty, but a photo collage is only so big!…

If you’re having trouble with the titles of these great suspense films, the answers are directly below!

[Top row: PSYCHO (1960), THE USUAL SUSPECTS (1995), REAR WINDOW (1954). Middle row: CHINATOWN (1974), L.A. CONFIDENTIAL (1997), SEVEN (1995), THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE (1962). Bottom row: KLUTE (1971), JAWS (1975), THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS (1991), THE SIXTH SENSE (1999)]

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Another Sybil Bruncheon Mini-Murder-Mystery... (for the short-attention-span crowd!)...

..."And it was there in the Library, M'Lord, that Lady Grenelle hid the beheaded corpse of her adoring husband for two days, even as she hosted a fox-hunting weekend for several of their friends! It was only when the body began to deteriorate, that it was found by the parlor maid in the log basket they had purchased on safari in Rhodesia… or was it Akron?"… The End.

This program was brought to you by a grant from the Minimal Reading & Thinking Council, the Moroni C. Unabelmann Trust, and by viewers like you! Thank you!

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Sybil Bruncheon's “A Few of My Favorite Things”… Agatha Christie's "Hercule Poirot"...

These are some of the most famous portrayals of Agatha Christie's iconic character, Hercule Poirot... and each may have its strong points, entertaining nuances, or annoying weaknesses.

In my opinion, and again, it's only my opinion, (like my feelings about performances of Jane Marple) some are loaded with brilliance, and others are... um... well, nearly unforgivable. In fact, I will not even name them all because of that; sulky, arbitrary, unintelligible, pedestrian, self-indulgent, high-schoolish, frivolously clownish... I'm amazed Christie hasn't clawed her way up through the rocky clay to seize some of them by their throats and drag them to Hell!

On the other hand, for me, there are two ideal Poirots; for the "small screen", it's of course, David Suchet. Interestingly, if you've seen him in other projects, he personally bears no resemblance to the little Belgian detective, short of being... well, short. (He's only 5' 7") He created the small egg-shaped appearance of Poirot by padding himself, changing his center of gravity, slowing his stride to mincing little steps, confining all his gestures to close-to-the-torso hand-fluttering, and reducing his naturally deep manly voice to higher-pitched whispering. His Poirot could almost be accused of being a fey "camp" impersonation of a 1930's "faggot". His fussing and compulsive housekeeping would be off-putting in a lesser actor, but Suchet carries it all off, and charmingly so. Coincidentally, Peter Ustinov, who played Poirot to Suchet's Inspector Japp many years earlier, told Suchet that he could play Poirot himself and gave him some of the Christie books to read... and the rest is history, literally! Suchet holds the record for playing the little detective in more projects, in more venues, and for more years than any other actor... in history!! His mustache alone underwent an extraordinary evolution as can be seen in the reruns!...

... and a Poirot for the "silver screen"? For me, it can only be Albert Finney. When he first appeared in 1974, audiences were startled by Finney's mannerisms, his stylized vocalization and gestures, and the fact that he'd evolved from being a "leading man" (of sorts) into a such an extreme almost freakish character. But director Sidney Lumet loaded the film with such an extraordinary supporting cast, such style and elegance, such beautiful cinematography, editing, and a lush film score to boot, and all confined in the tight compartments of the Orient Express that Finney's Poirot felt perfectly natural. His meticulous fastidiousness even while dying his hair and mustache is perfect. In fact, he was nominated for an Oscar as Best Actor, and the film received another five nominations in other categories.

When the story was remade yet again later in 2017, the budget was 50 times greater; there were spectacular but unnecessary CGI exteriors and vistas, a surprising dearth of style and elegance, and superfluous embellishments... like that absurd mile-wide mustache, and reconfigured into a Van Dyke of all things!!... you notice I haven't mentioned the actor/producer by name... oh well.

I guess it just goes to show that some characters in the history of fiction, no matter how iconic and brilliant, are not "actor proof"... Fortunately, Christie was dead before most of these stumbling attempts were made. A blessing of sorts. Right before she died, she stated that MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS (1974) was one of her two most favorite films of her work. The other was WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION (1957)... with no Hercule Poirot!

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Sybil Bruncheon's “A Few of My Favorite Things”… Agatha Christie's "Jane Marple"...

Agatha Christie's "Jane Marple"... fortunately, the character is so extraordinary a creation that she is almost "actor-proof". It's nearly impossible to do her badly... or should I say, VERY badly?...

IMO; These are the best portrayals of Agatha Christie's iconic character Jane Marple... and each has her strong points and entertaining nuances...

Julia McKenzie is suitably fretful and self-deprecating as the clues (and murders!) pile up. But she keeps letting us know how “in the dark” she is, until, of course, she’s not!

And when I want a fluttering parakeet with a sharp little beak and tiny claws, it's Geraldine McEwan. Her lemony bite and snarky side-glances are perfect if you want your Miss Marple with an edge.

I can sometimes enjoy Angela Lansbury, if I don't mind stammering, squawking, and dithering. But her Marple is a bit like Mrs. Lovett… without the cannibalism...

…and Helen Hayes would be perfect if I wanted a busy-body granny from next door who smelled of gingerbread and Prince Matchabelli's "Wind Song"...

But I DO have my favorites; when I want comedy, I choose Margaret Rutherford. I love the way she chews everything on camera; the scenery, the dialogue, her fellow actors... nothing is safe from her ham-bone mugging, and every moment with her is a master class in how to mug shamelessly and still merit accolades as a genius. She delights me so much that I can actually binge-watch her "Murder Most-" series of 1960s again and again.

AND, drum roll please!... when I want to revel in my very favorite Jane Marple of all time, it's none other than Joan Hickson, the actress that Christie herself hoped would one day play the sleuth. She never embroiders or accessorizes Marple. There are no arbitrary vocal or physical tricks... no clutter. As a matter of fact, Hickson's Marple is almost a study in Method Acting, as if Marlon Brando or James Dean were doing her. She whispers and mumbles many of her lines, often as if she's not actually speaking to other characters onscreen with her. Her line deliveries are almost introspective meditations... I sometimes think we're reading her mind. Her silences are wonderful, and her glances at foolish people or at liars are the gold, nay, the platinum standard of stillness. She is the dead opposite of Rutherford, and only elicits laughter from me when I am gobsmacked by her acting brilliance. She has light literally pouring out of her... without the pyrotechnics! Rutherford has the fireworks... and for me, the others are cowbells, kazoos, caterwaulings, and whoopie cushions. Again, just my opinion...

(Counterclockwise from left: Joan Hickson, Angela Lansbury, Margaret Rutherford, Julia McKenzie, Geraldine McEwan, and in the center, Helen Hayes)

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Sybil Bruncheon's Summer Suspenseful Reading Suggestions!... "The Grapefruit Spoon Slayer" by Pilburt Gnadley!!!

Based on the true story in the Waltham Gazette from 1934 about the infamous and slightly dyslexic Beatrice Crenwinkle. She killed a confirmed 39 people, and was suspected of another 42 more! All in the Pilgrim's Progress Luncheonette on the corner of Standish and Bradford over the span of 18 years.... her trademark was to leave a maraschino cherry in the middle of the forehead of each victim supposedly because she had been raised in an abusive Presbyterian orphanage in India until she was 11… or perhaps because she was just allergic to curry. Massachusetts toyed with the idea of outlawing grapefruit spoons for the following decade, but settled instead on just banning red food dye #1 and jarred cocktail fruit.

Not recommended for young or impressionable readers because of its fairly graphic and lurid passages, especially the descriptions of what she did with the victims before she'd leave their bodies at various roadside fruit stands or in the fresh produce aisles in local grocery stores. Chilling!! Thoroughly chilling!!

(The paperback version has additional illustrations, color photographs, and a centerfold!… but is only sold to adults! Jack & Jill Magazine is contemplating publishing a child-appropriate edition. With a connect-the-dots and paper-doll cut-outs!)

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A NEW George Sweet Doorway Mystery! – “Dreams On The Doorstep“ ...

... was it a dream? How do we know that any moment we’re experiencing isn’t merely a dream? Isn’t every dream real, totally consuming and real in the moment we’re living in it?...well, “real” until some of them begin to amuse or sadden or terrify us to the point where our psyches or ids or egos, or our sense of self-preservation finally says “NO! NO! This is a dream! Nothing but a stupid, stupid dream, and I’m going to wake up! Now! I’m going to wake up, and you’re too silly, or you’ve hurt me too deeply, or you’re too horrible, but you’re not real, and I can escape by waking up! I’M WAKING UP!!!”… and you do! 

Irina wasn’t sure when or where she was as she stood in front of the beautiful doorway. Had she been there before, or always been there, waiting for some unknown person to open it? …or perhaps for it to open by itself? That doorway covered with inlaid shells in glorious patterns…and …were those actual pearls? Real pearls in all shapes, sizes, and colors?... had she seen it before?... or knew where it led? Was it her own home, or the doorway to another wonderful unknown place? A place that filled her with a free, almost wild joy about something new… a new life in a new place…and a new her? ...Leaving everything that was the “before” in life behind. Everything that was the “before” about Irina behind.

And so, as she stood there, staring at that door covered…encrusted in millions of the most extraordinary shells, she began to float in a place free of reality, the tiresome weight of reality, and she floated into the colors, the swirling shapes, the artistry and intricacy of what stood in front of her. Some brilliant hand had taken the genius of Nature’s undersea palette and architecture and laid it all out to stand over her as she stood looking up in awe. Humbled and small and yet, somehow elated.

And as she stood just inches from all that detail, and leaned in to study it, she didn’t even question as the shapes and colors began to slowly swirl just out of the corner of her eye. Was it? In the frame?..No…did it move? Did something move? When her eyes darted to the left or the right, to the place where something… did it? No. YES! There! No… Always something on the door, in the lintel…some swirl or edge… a triangle of long thin shells..or had it been laid out as star? …the colors and patterns played with her...teasing. Dazzling and baffling her, almost as if they were merrily playing with a kitten, frisking and scampering just out of reach…

...and as her eyes marveled at what she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, Irina didn’t notice the small twinkling edge of water that began to seep from underneath the left edge of the door. It slid slowly towards her foot, and then pooled and crept over the inlaid marble, polished so brightly in the floor’s mosaic that the water’s sheen was lost in the glassy mirror of the stone. The water slid more and more rapidly, beginning to ripple almost as it moved in a sheet, past Irina’s feet, and beyond.

 But Irina didn’t see. Her eyes were carried into the shells, the shells of all those magically ornate little creatures from deep in the dark waters of the world, evolving quietly away into new and stranger shapes and destinies, living or dreaming their own journeys… living or dreaming by the millions through the eons to be gathered and admired, honored and arranged, treasured and fastened in place…while Irina stood transported… dreaming. Seeing, yet unseeing. As the water, both warm and cool at the same time, trickling like laughter from a lover, yet somehow silent, rose slowly and steadily. Swirling like the shapes made of shells on the door. Water filling the room, or wherever. The place with the doorway….and the girl, dreaming, or not, as the water climbed and climbed, and the girl stood, rapt with what her eyes were seeing and believing. Nothing else. Just the visions of the shells, their colors and shapes, and the dreams of the shells and the dreams of the creatures that had built and lived in those millions of shells…. And the water that had held and carried all of them… Irina, the shells….through time, to this place of no place, and no time. To be… or dream…or… to dream of being… or perhaps, merely being a dream…

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From Sybil's "MY MERRY MEMOIRS - Hollywood's Hysterical Histories"...

About six years after Otto Preminger made LAURA (1944) with Gene Tierney, Dana Andrews, Clifton Webb, Judith Anderson, and Vincent Price, he approached me with a sequel! I was so excited. And I was being offered the lead! But I asked him, "What about Tierney?"... he said that she would have to pass. She was busy with WHIRLPOOL... and Dana Andrews was doing MY FOOLISH HEART... and the others weren't "available" either. But I was still excited. It was a job, a real job, and right when the Hollywood blacklisting was picking up speed.

There were two great things about the project! One was the song, "Laura" by Raskin and Mercer. They were rewriting the lyrics to make it fit with the sequel. And the other great thing was that Vincent Price had agreed to be in it. And then I got the script over the weekend... it was set on the planet Neptune, Price was playing a mad-scientist who experimented in his garden, and I was to play his newest creation... LARVA!… and the new lyrics? JEEESH! (by the way, Vincent insisted that it could NOT be set on Uranus!!)

Larva is the face in the misty light, she flits here and there in the hall. You see her alone on a summer night as she crawls along the wall. Eight eyes and oh, how they twinkle so, eight arms to give you a hug. She gave your very first kiss to you, that was Larva, but she's only a bug.

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…" (Part One)

1990: To live large or to live simply. Do I start at the beginning, or at the end? I had finally moved out of my parents' basement in Ohio, and I suppose you could say I was whisked away to Never-Never Land when I stumbled upon what was reported to be one of Napoleon's many “stays” in Paris. With broad winks and sweaty giggles, Mme. Painne-d'épice, the plump landlady, pressed her great squishy bulk against me as she confided that one or two of the little corporal’s several mistresses might have lived in this very building… perhaps even in the attic which had been converted into the garret I was to rent. And while her cheerful chattering and chuckling faded into a soft jumble, I imagined that during his rise to power, Napoleon, “Le Petit Caporal” himself might have beheld much the same view of the enchanting, mesmerizing, fantasy world of Montmartre. … “You zee dat leetle house over dare?”, Mme. Painne-d'épice whispered as she nudged me... and she began the tale, the first of several about that little rooftop maisonette with the garden that I beheld just outside and below my window… the one with the door… slightly ajar.

1891: “The Cottage on Top” as it was then called appeared to be a peaceful haven in the city but actually was haunted by the soul of a wronged lover who committed suicide 100 years earlier… His name was Signor Claronce Bemmaliono, and he was a clown of great repute in the Garibaldi & Fritzheimer Circus Of Astral Wonders & Earthly Delights that toured most of Europe in the 1880s. His professional stage name was Bomba-Lino, and children adored him in over 14 languages. It was said that he was better known to the populaces of some countries than their own prime ministers were… and it was true. People passing by him in cities and villages alike would recognize him, even without his clown make-up, and rush up to shake his hand or even hug him, showering him with chocolates, cheeses, loaves of fresh bread, flowers, and love… oh, so much love.

And yet here he was, on that December evening in 1891 in his own little maisonette that once held such joy for him, reading her note for the umpteenth time. He still didn’t know why she left. He had given her everything! EVERYTHING!... and that everything was not paltry. As a star of the touring circus, he made a considerable salary. Certainly much more than a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, or a tavern owner would be able to give her. Many people actually thought that silly, jolly, roly-poly Bomba-Lino might be making as much as a lawyer or even a doctor… and his wife’s jewelry and clothes certainly looked like it.

He crumpled her note and let it drop, and looked down at his hands, his open palms seeming to plead for understanding, for solace, and then he stared at the floor beyond them… his focus going far away... and deep inside at the same time. There was no solace. No one came to comfort him. There was no loving whisper from inside… or from above. Nothing. And so he made his plan. He wanted Melba to be publicly embarrassed by the terrible torment she inflicted on him. For years afterwards, the neighbors would point down to the very spot on the terrace from where they said he had jumped to his fate… well, "jumped" might not be quite the right word. Not with all the damage to everyone’s windows and masonry.

You see he had shot himself out of a cannon in his dining room. The only witness was a neighbor who happened to be looking down from the garret just above. He told the gendarmes who rushed to investigate immediately after that he heard a tremendous explosion and saw the roof of the maisonette burst open with a flash of flames and projectiles! Then the golden glow dimmed, morphed into a blood smokiness, and vanished in a final platinum flash… The deafening roar echoed once, twice, three times off the surrounding blocks and alleyways, then vanished as well in the distance. A moment of stunned silence, and then the barking, yelling, screaming of all of those below and beyond… who only moments before neither cared nor even knew of the anguish that one solitary soul had decided he needed to escape from. And leave it to Bomba-Lino to have made his exit like a showman! A comedic showman worthy of the great Vaudeville houses or the Moulin Rouge itself; with an implausible flourish of theatrical flash and absurdity. No one had realized that the huge crate the workers had lifted to the rooftop maisonette was not a new piano for Madame Melba… NO! It was Bomba-Lino’s own circus cannon, painted with bright decorations of garlanded Greek gods and goddesses, stars and planets, and a full smiling moon peeking through clouds… presumably to indicate where the occupant would soon be visiting. Yes, Bomba-Lino. The Great & Belovéd Bomba-Lino had shot himself out of his own circus cannon! And the landlord decided that was a perfect time to install the skylight.

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

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

1990: And that was how it all began in the early Spring.

By October, I considered myself a Parisian. Foolish, I know, but that was my youthful and naïve American exuberance. I had become oh-so aware of the eccentricities of my neighbors and their lives around me, or what I imagined their lives to be. My amiable chats-in-passing with local shopkeepers that I liked to think were so very “très intime” were really just them being terribly patient with “le petit chou américain”; the little American cabbage. That’s how they referred to me… all of them. Even the elderly street sweeper, a cab driver, the florists, bakers, everyone. “Oh, he’s the one staying in that attic that overlooks la petite maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” which my squishy landlady translated as “the little garden house… in the stars”.

And so, I fell into a routine, not boring certainly, but regular, of being that little art student, the cabbage, in Mme. Painne-d'épice’s attic; amusing, slightly silly, and indulged, when they had the time, by the locals. I picked out my baguettes, the charming but affordable burgundies or bordeauxs, some cheeses recommended oh-so highly by Monsieur Pneuàplat, the small bunches of fragrant purple gillies, and day-after-day trudged up the leaning flights of creaking stairs to my home… truly my home.

It was a blue 'blu' night in Monmartre… And at dusk, as the apartment lights started shining, the city magic would begin... I searched relentlessly for my binoculars, but they were not where I had left them from the night before… during my nightly “visits” into other people’s lives. My cleaning lady, Zavøn, must have “put them away” again! She didn’t approve at all of my “spee-ing on zee nice nahbors” as she put it half seriously, half teasingly. Truth be told, she was often just as curious as I, and I had caught her one afternoon when I came home earlier than expected, gazing hungrily through them at the windows and skylight of the “maisonette de jardin dans les étoiles” on the next building. Startled, she whirled around in a mixture of embarrassment and pique… and was that a little fear too? But she covered it with a charming laugh at her own expense which I couldn’t resist, and I mock-wrestled with her and the binoculars, scolding her and thrilling to the camaraderie we shared as naughty “spee-ers”.

I looked under the sofa, behind the linen chest, and finally found my binoculars in the old, squeaking icebox that Zavøn had defrosted earlier in the week. I dried them off and scanned the usual windows, soaring here and there for updates on their little dramas. Tonight, I marveled that a story glowed behind each window. A story for each and every person in each and every window, and I wondered if there was enough time to read them all as I flew by.

There was Jacques, the do-it-yourselfer, a fairly adept carpenter, and nudist. No matter how many windows Jacques added to his roof top abode, it being Paris, his nude antics went unnoticed… or perhaps only uncomplained about, even when he accidentally-on-purpose strolled around fully aroused, carrying a croissant and coffee first thing in the morning. Tonight, however, he was fully dressed, well-dressed, and seemed to be yelling into the phone which he dragged as far as the wall cord would allow him as he waved his free arm about and strode from one end of the room to the other, and finally out of sight, perhaps to the kitchen… I could still his voice though, very faint though unintelligible through the open window carried as it was on the still Fall air. My French wasn’t nearly as perfect as it should have been considering the private lessons I splurged on, but I did understand a little… something about “They may know about it”… and “You have no solutions ever!”… and “That’s why we’re here!”, that last part screamed in fury. I wondered if any other neighbors were hearing snatches of his rage, but no one was standing at their windows looking down or over, so it seemed I was alone as an audience member to this little urban melodrama…

I flew into the air and must have shouted or even given a small scream when a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder! I whirled about and would have dropped my binoculars if the thick leather strap hadn’t been around my neck. There she was, grinning broadly and smelling strongly of blue cheese and baloney, “Madame P.” as I now called my landlady. “What are you doing, you naughty boy? Air you speeing on dee nahbors? Zavøn haz told me abut yure mis-cheefs, and I hahv caught her myself doing zee same!”. I must have blushed, not only at being caught at “my mis-cheefs” but also at screaming like a three year old girl when she startled me. Whatever I was doing, Mme. P could barely contain her hearty laughter, bubbling and climbing, receding and then starting anew. But how could I resent her? Her heart was always open and basically very kind… and generous! She held up, almost as a peace offering, a bottle of Veuve Clicqout rosé and two surprisingly fine crystal flutes… monogrammed with ornate flourishes and a central “B”, so elaborately embellished as to be almost illegible. “Forr mon petit chou chou!... air you ready forr anozer story? Seens you look so close over dare? Air you?”. And as she poured, she gestured down to the glowing little garden house… in the stars.

(End of Part Two. Stay tuned for Part Three of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…”)

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Sybil Bruncheon’s “Strange Tales of Strange Places: Bellegrave Castle”…

Bellegrave Castle in the remote part of the forest had been a strange and, for most people, a forbidding place, full of rumors of old misfortunes and even violence. Oddly, the people who had fallen victim to its mysteries were loners, rarely related to any family members or wide circles of friends who would follow up on disappearances…. or foul play…almost as if the castle actually knew who to pick and choose for its murderous mischiefs. 

Imagine! A place that actually was capable of conscious thought…and willful malevolence. Skeptics who stumbled on tales of the place would apply their 20th century sensibilities and learning and deny that anything like that could happen, in the “real world”. Of course, there have been other tales of places infected with a methodical evil. But perhaps nothing quite like this. 

You see, the castle had been built by reputedly loving and much loved people; a royal family known for wisdom, justice, and generous displays to their subjects and vassals. The lords of Bellegrave also had been the extremely lucky residents of peaceful times, free of the constant wars and conspiracies that plagued the centuries in which they lived and the neighboring countries that seethed and burned so nearby.

The great good fortune that shone on this beautiful place seemed indeed heaven-sent, and the sobriquets of “The Good”, “The Fair”, ‘The Kind Hearted”, and “The Blessed” often were added to the rulers’ names as they were crowned and followed one by one in direct succession, father to son, and even to daughter, in the case of Princesses who also could ascend the throne with no complications of the restrictive male primogeniture where only sons could rule. Each generation was blessed with happy, healthy children, again unlike the other royal houses of Europe where infant mortality and the demise of dynasties could result in secret crimes concealed behind palace walls, or civil wars played out in open countrysides. 

So how, how after the centuries of royalty and chivalry flowed by, and the modern age of reason and modernism had dawned did Bellegrave Castle lose its lustre? Its radiance? …and its sanity? As royal titles faded, duchies and principalities merged, and families gave up putting Roman numerals behind their noble names… Bellegrave Castle drifted from a golden haze into a grey and forlorn miasma… sad at first, and then slowly rotting from somewhere inside… inside its walls, and its soul…

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