The Gods Don't Like Hubris

Two weeks ago I finally caught up with Happens Every Day, the memoir by Isabel Gillies about the breakup of her marriage. It so profoundly annoyed me that I can't get it out of my mind. I'd hate to go so far as to say that Gillies may have deserved what happened to her, but the constant gloating about the superiority of her "perfect" family life surely played some part. It's not wise to offend the gods.

Of course, her poor choice in men didn't help matters. For those who don't know the background, Gillies is an actress whose handsome husband, an Oberlin poetry professor, left her for a colleague. But "Josiah" had done the same thing to his first wife, while she was pregnant with his child. Red flag, Isabel, red flag.

The weirdest part is that Gillies had also cultivated her rival, "Sylvia"—alternately described as a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn, Winona Ryder, Natalie Portman, and Irene Jacob—and repeatedly attempts to explain her incredibly creepy reasons for doing so:

"I felt sorry for her because her husband was in New York and she didn't have children, a fabulous house, and a marvelous man, like I had. I wanted to make her feel good about herself."

"To me, she was seeing an example of what you can achieve if you put hard work into a marriage and keep your eye on the ball of your shared goals. We were showing her how it was done."

"What I was doing was trying to lead by example. I wanted her to stay in the town with me and get her husband to come and live there. He was an actor in New York whom I had never heard of [unlike her own well-known self?]. . . . We could make our own cool city, where we could teach what we wanted, be progressive politically, eat organically from our friend's [sic] restaurants, live in cheap, beautiful houses and have many dinner parties in them, raise our babies together, all of whom would learn violin by the age of six with the Suzuki method that was taught at the conservatory."

The gods don't like hubris very much. Happens Every Day is a hubris-fest.

Have I mentioned that Gillies once appeared on the cover of Seventeen and twice dated Mick Jagger? Let's let her tell us, in her own brand of non sequitur–like prose: "Because I was on the cover of Seventeen magazine when I was fourteen and I am an actress, I depend on the fact that, objectively, I am good-looking. Tall, blond hair, odd looks but undeniably attractive. "

Because she made the cover of Seventeen, it follows that she is attractive? And all actresses are good-looking? What is she talking about?

In the sloppily written Happens Every Day, Gillies overuses her parentheses (that is, she digresses much too often), and contradicts herself over and over. Witness how she slips in her history with Jagger: "I didn't even tell [Josiah] I went on two dates with Mick Jagger in L.A. because I didn't want to ruin the Rolling Stones for him." But next she tells us that her husband has never been particularly jealous.

Gillies, who taught a theatre class at Oberlin, then offers her warped theory of education:

"You always want your students to think you look great and to be intimidated by you. It's tricky, the student/teacher relationship. You must be close enough so they feel they can open themselves to you and learn, but not so close that they think you are their friend and can ask you where you got your clothes. You are older than they are, cooler, have much more under your belt."

I'm sure Gillies is a decent-enough person who truly suffered when her husband left her, but did this story really need to be told?

"The Recession Is Over. It's As If It Never Happened."

This was overheard in a Chelsea art gallery today. One gallery receptionist greeted an employee from another gallery with this good news. She went on to explain that her gallery has sold many pieces from the current show, and she hears that other galleries are experiencing the same. Her friend reported that her gallery has also bounced back. Phew, what a relief. Jobs must be on the way.

Seriously, the most worthwhile experience in Chelsea today was getting to see John Lurie's paintings at Fredericks and Freiser on Twenty-fourth Street. I remember a perfectly pleasant show at a different gallery a few years back, with drawings and paintings more crude than those I saw today, but Lurie's new work is really something—delightful and surprising.

On the other hand, the most popular show in Chelsea today seemed to be "Oil," the Edward Burtynsky photographs at Hasted Hunt Kraeutler. Also much recommended.

"Excuse Me, Do You Have Any Books About Jeffrey Dahmer?"

Now there's a question bookstore clerks probably don't like to answer. Tonight I overheard a homeless man ask this of a very kind Barnes & Noble employee. He was directed to the nearby True Crime section.

Many creepy characters frequent this massive five-story B&N branch near Lincoln Center, which is open until midnight every day. The store has a homeless population that may reach the three digits. I once observed a disturbed man coming down the escalator singsongingly shouting over and over to no one in particular: "I'm shocked to see you. I thought you died long ago." Nightmare inducing, I'll tell you.

Bruno Dumont Is the Only Film Director I Have a Crush On

Although there's nothing I like more than attending a film screening followed by a Q&A with the director, it was not until earlier tonight that I realized I have never before developed a crush on one of these filmmakers. That is, until I saw Bruno Dumont tonight at Lincoln Center's New York Film Festival screening of Hadewijch.

There's just something about this guy, who I've run into many times over the years. Now fifty-one years old, he's aging quite nicely. He's just handsome enough (looks like Jack Kerouac), and his clothes are the best: they fit perfectly, he favors muted color combinations that you wouldn't attempt yourself but look amazing on him, and there's definitely a sense that he's not even trying. Oh, the French.

Also, he's smart as hell, and you can tell he'd be a major badboy if you were lucky enough to be involved with him.

And the film? See it.

The Charms of Natasha Richardson

I twice encountered Natasha Richardson in New York City, and she surprised and enchanted me on both occasions. It is common to see celebrities on the street or at various events, but these sightings rarely leave much of an impression. Not so with Ms. Richardson.

I first saw her in the ladies' room at a black-tie event, probably about eight years ago. I was washing my hands when I glanced up and saw Ms. Richardson exiting a bathroom stall. She came and stood beside me, flashed me an incandescent smile, and began to fiddle with her strapless gown. Of course I knew who she was, but New Yorkers quickly learn not to let on that celebrities have been recognized. With an utter lack of self-consciousness she continued to pull at her dress, using her smile and sparkling eyes--yes, her eyes did sparkle--to include me in this battle with her garment. Finally she spoke: "There are bones everywhere in this dress, except where you need them."

At this point, I excused myself. Socially awkward even with close friends, I knew I would not be able to dazzle her with any pithy quips about wardrobe malfunctions. But this seemingly trivial encounter left me with a frothy feeling, a tiny entree into the life of an actress I admired. She may have realized I recognized her, but more likely it never entered her mind; she was just one woman speaking to another in a ladies' room. Ms. Richardson seemed so comfortable in her own skin--if not her evening dress--that she didn't think twice about engaging with a stranger.

I saw her again a few years later, this time with her husband, Liam Neeson, outside a summer black-tie party that was being held in a tent at Lincoln Center in New York. Neeson seemed to be some sort of host at the event and kept leaving the tent to be interviewed for TV cameras. Although she was mostly being ignored, Ms. Richardson sat on a large planter, seemingly patient and content, once in a while looking at her husband with what appeared to be amusement and affection. At one point, in a charming and girlish manner, she took out a compact to touch up her makeup. Somehow she was able to pull this off without appearing to be self-absorbed or narcissistic, as so many women do.

Witnessing this touching scene from a marriage, which went on for an hour or so before some European tourists recognized Neeson and began to make a fuss, gave this New Yorker hope that some relationships are truly happy. Six months later, Ms. Richardson had her accident.

The Museum of Modern Art's Film Screenings: A Modest Proposal

I hesitate to bring this up, because it's such a good deal and I don't want it to become any more popular than it is, but a $75 annual membership at New York City's Museum of Modern Art entitles you to see an average of four films a day—except Tuesdays, when the museum is closed—for free.

What's the catch? You have to view these films with a very dicey audience. Someone recently derided the MOMA film denizens as "retirees with respiratory problems." My complaint goes much further, although it is truly unsettling to witness the noise an unhealthy human body is capable of making while not in motion. During screenings at MOMA's two theaters I was once assaulted, and a friend of mine was groped by an old man sitting next to her. A large proportion of the film viewers do not wash very often. One audience member, an older woman who looks relatively sane, sits and curses; another laughs too loudly at things that aren't funny; one man talks out loud to himself and harasses people during the screenings; at almost every film I have attended, a man wearing a bad wig wanders in late and clips his nails; a homeless woman rummages through her bags; a sweet-looking woman pours a pile of hard candies into her lap and opens them noisily during the film; another woman tells you on numerous occasions that you have stolen her seat. It is not uncommon to have a screening interrupted by two audience members who begin to argue. Many people bring a smelly lunch or dinner, although food and drink are forbidden. (These theaters do not sell popcorn, soda, or candy.) I once encountered an exquisitely dressed gigolo at a screening of a Rossellini film; when his elderly client went off to use the ladies' room, the gigolo began to chat me up—perhaps in an effort to drum up business. About forty people use the theaters to catch up on sleep, and snore throughout the film. (It was one of the sleepers who hit me when I unwittingly leaned forward in my seat, and he thought I was moving in to steal his coat! This was a seventy-five-year-old man at a screening of a documentary about Sonic Youth. He was there only to take a quick nap in a warm place.)

And I haven't even mentioned the colorful so-called "stars" of Cinemania, the documentary released a few years ago about some of New York's film diehards, who still frequent the MOMA theaters.

There is one prime seat that is safe, a lone chair behind the orchestra in an area designated for wheelchair patrons. But try getting this seat. I have arrived forty minutes early to find it already occupied, but once in a while it is free. If it is, the film experience will be relatively smooth. If it isn't, I am on high alert. You never know who might sit next to you or what they might do.

I have a friend who says he can ignore all that is around him at these films. I am perhaps too thin-skinned for the place. It has to be a very special film for me to dare to enter these theaters; this is a shame since something worthwhile plays here almost every day. And, in this economy, it's great to be able to see a free film whenever you need the distraction. Yet it's the free issue that is the root cause of the motliness of the audience. (There is also a wonderful usher/guard, who acts as a bit of an enabler to these people. He knows just how to quiet down the crazy guy who starts yelling during screenings, and I once saw him bring in a folding chair for the homeless woman when she couldn't find a seat at a crowded screening.)

The MOMA film curators are fully aware of the issues; once in a while an announcement is made about rustling bags and the no-eating policy, and the usher patrols the theater during the film to keep order. As with most crackdowns, this one never lasts. But I have a possible solution: MOMA should start charging a token amount for film screenings. A two- or three-dollar admission might keep out the people who sit through films that don't interest them. Even better, MOMA could continue free screenings in the smaller Titus 2 theater, and those using the museum as a way station could hang out there. It may sound harsh to suggest corralling these people in a separate area, but I defy anyone who has experienced MOMA's regular film audience to be more charitable.

Why Nurse Courtney?

Why have I called this blog "Nurse Courtney"? I'm not a nurse, and my name isn't Courtney. I'll reveal more later about why I chose the title.

I'm a former book editor, living a more down-scaled existence these days, in the same boat as millions of other Americans. I'll be posting about the little daily dramas and scenes I observe in New York City, while I look for a new career and a new way of life.