by Lillian Ross
The last leg of the ride was on Broadway, where the police had been less successful in clearing a lane for the cyclists, and it was sometimes necessary to weave among trucks and honking cars. Nevertheless, two hundred or so managed to complete the ride to Battery Park, where we asked Ms. Green, a pretty, dark-haired woman in a gray pants suit, if the event had exceeded her expectations.
“Well, when my husband and I first thought of this, we had in mind thirty or forty people making a quiet statement by riding together,” she said. “Only lately did we realize we were going to get such a tremendous response. It makes me hopeful that we’ll really be able to get some bike lanes. Everybody was so friendly and respectful. I think people will realize that bikes really can make it a better city without tearing it down and building it up again.”
Someone handed Ms. Green a bullhorn, she made a little speech, and the cyclists rang their bells in appreciation. Then the cyclists went their separate ways, and once again New York was Car City.
1970
QUESTIONS AT RADIO CITY — Hendrik Hertzberg
THE most stupendissimo non-event of the Fall Publicity Season so far was the big, big Sophia Loren press conference at Radio City Music Hall last Thursday morning. The movie business has long conceived of the public prints as a transmission belt for the efforts of its public-relations departments. Joseph E. Levine, the president of Avco Embassy Pictures, which is distributing Miss Loren’s latest film, “Sunflower,” perfected this view of the function of the media by actually making the press a part of the show at its opening, at the Radio City Music Hall, and then charging admission for it. The reporters— there were five hundred of them—got in free, but the fifty-five hundred Loren fans who made up the cheering section paid for the privilege at the box office. The front third of the orchestra had been reserved for newsmen, studio officials, Rockettes (in mufti), and other privileged persons. When we arrived, at half past nine, the paying customers behind the press section were beginning to grumble. They had lined up early outside the Music Hall and had snagged what they assumed would be the choicest seats, and now it was dawning on them that their view of Miss Loren would be blocked by a dozen camera crews, who were in the process of setting up their equipment. Two of the paying customers, Mrs. Anna Marinello and her sister Mrs. Lucille Egitto, marched down the aisle to confront the authorities. They started yelling at a publicity man whom the privileged persons addressed as Sheldon.
“I’m up since four-thirty, I took my husband to the Fulton Fish Market, I’m here since seven o’clock, and now I can’t see,” said Mrs. Marinello. “I haven’t got up that early in twenty years.”
“Not only that but my train, the Seventh Avenue I.R.T. express from Flatbush Avenue, was on fire,” said Mrs. Egitto.
“We didn’t even have breakfast,” said Mrs. Marinello.
“Please, darlings, be reasonable. There are seats on the other side,” said Sheldon.
“Don’t give me that baloney,” said Mrs. Marinello. “There aren’t any seats over there.”
Sheldon struck a dramatic pose. “What shall I do?” he said. “Shall I kill myself ?”
A booming disembodied voice announced that Miss Loren had been delayed in traffic but would arrive momentarily. Behind us, a couple of reporters were trying to predict what questions would be asked.
“How about ‘Miss Loren, how do you like American men?’ ” said the first.
“That’s good,” said the second. “How about ‘What are your impressions of the United States?’ ”
“Good, good. How about ‘What is the secret of an ideal marriage?’ ”
The disembodied voice boomed out again, to introduce “the man who made all this possible, the president of Avco Embassy Pictures, Mr. Joseph E. Levine.”
Mr. Levine, a stocky, benevolent-looking man, appeared in a spotlight at one corner of the stage and said modestly, “I’m not quite sure I’m solely responsible for this event. Much of the credit goes to the great producer, Mr. Carlo Ponti.” Mr. Ponti, who is Miss Loren’s husband, stood up in the audience and waved. He is stocky and benevolent-looking, too, and he was wearing big glasses.
Then Mr. Levine said that it was a pleasure for him to have the privilege of introducing Miss Sophia Loren. The huge gold curtains parted slightly, the audience cheered, and Miss Loren, wearing black velvet pants and a red silk tunic, entered stage center and smiled. She walked to a gold lectern surrounded by piles of chrysanthemums and made a few opening remarks. Unfortunately, the microphone did not begin to function until she had nearly finished them. “. . . affection that it reserves to a true friend. Thank you very much indeed,” she said, with a slight accent. Much applause.
The dialogue that followed included these exchanges:
“Miss Loren, would you ever appear nude in a film?”
“Do you think this is a question you should ask among six thousand people?”
“Miss Loren, are you in support of the Women’s Liberation movement?” (Cries of “No! No!” from the audience.)
“We are living in a male society for centuries, so what’s wrong with woman giving a little push? But she must not forget her duties and responsibilities as a woman. She must not forget the qualities that make her the complement of a man, and vice versa.”
“Miss Loren, what qualities do you consider make a woman a woman?”
“You mean an ideal woman? She should take care of her personal appearance, not be boring, and not show, even if she has it, too much intelligence.”
“Miss Loren, what are your views on the braless movement?”
“What?”
“Miss Loren, do you have a special message for the Italians of America?”
“Me? I’m not the President of Italy. I can’t tell you anything.”
“Miss Loren, do you think your role in ‘Sunflower’ is perhaps your best performance since ‘Two Women’?”
“Very much indeed so. It is a picture I care very much about. It is a story based on the everlasting pillars of human feeling.”
And, at last: “Miss Loren, what is your formula for a happy marriage?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s something that you have got inside. Since I met Carlo, I have felt complete as a woman.”
Miss Loren waved and bowed and disappeared. The reporters headed for the exits. We asked Sheldon where Miss Loren was staying.
“She’s staying privately,” he said.
We pondered this. “You mean at someone’s house?”
Sheldon said a word that sounded like both “yes” and “no.” We smiled at him in admiration. A word that sounds like both “yes” and “no” must be a useful one for a publicity man to know.
1970
THE POSTMASTER — William Shawn
IN 1921, William Faulkner, then aged twenty-four, became postmaster of University, Mississippi. He remained in that job until 1924, at which time he was fired. Shortly before the Post Office Department let him go, it sent him a letter, which, in a round-about fashion, has reached our hands, and which, to our knowledge, has not been published before. We print it in full, for whatever light it throws on the literary life:
Post Office Department
Office of Inspector
Corinth, Mississippi
Subject: University Mississippi:
Charges vs the postmaster; neglects official duties; indifferent to interests of
patrons; mistreatment of mail, etc.
Mr. William C. Faulkner
Postmaster
University, Mississippi.
Dear Sir:
The following charges have been made against you as postmaster at University, Mississippi:
1. That you are neglectful of your duties, in that you are a habitual reader of books and magazines, and seem reluctant to cease reading long enough to wait on the patrons; that you have a book being printed at the present time, the greater part of which was written while on duty at the postoffice; that some of the patrons will not trust you to forward their m
ail, because of your past carelessness and these patrons have their neighbors forward same for them while away on their vacations; that you have failed to forward and properly handle mail for various patrons of the office, some of whom follows: M. G. Pasuer, Rev. W. I. Hargis, Miss M. W. Means, W. A. Scarbrough, Jimmy Jones, Judge Heminway and many others; that you have closed up the box of John Savage and others after they had paid their box rent and you had receipted them; that you returned COD parcel No. W22705, from John Ward, Mens Shoes, New York City, addressed to H. E. Ray Jr., after he had given you an order in person and left ten cents in money to forward to him at 924 Filmore Street, Corinth, Miss., and you had notified him for postage and he sent you postage from Corinth as per your order, yet the parcel was returned to senders marked “unclaimed.”
2. That in addition to the above careless handling of mail you failed to deliver a letter to Jimmy Jones until after he had gone to your father (who is Secretary of University of Mississippi), and got a note regarding the delivery of same (Jones being a well known patron of your office); that on another occasion a contractor working at the University was compelled to get your father to help him get a package out of the office, which you had held for two or three days; that you placed two or three letters in the box of Mr. R. L. Sullivan (the box next to Chancellor Hume’s box), which had been written to Mrs. Hume by Dr. Hume while away from home, and since Mr. Sullivan was away on his vacation these letters remained in the box of Sullivan, until placed in the box of Chancellor Hume by Assistant Postmaster Bell, some three or four days after Dr. Hume had returned home and had made considerable inquiry concerning same.
3. That you are indifferent to interest of patrons, unsocial, and rarely ever speak to patrons of the office unless absolutely necessary; that you do not give the office the proper attention, opening and closing same at your convenience; that you can be found playing golf during office hours.
4. That you mistreat mail of all classes, including registered mail; that you have thrown mail with return postage guaranteed and all other classes in the garbage can by the side entrance, near the rear door, which was addressed to the following patrons: F. E. Farquer, Howard B. Wallace, Wm. Ross Kennedy, University Store, Dean J. H. Dorrah, University of Miss. Hospital, Gordon Hall Boarding House, Alex L. Bonduarant, Mississippian, William R. Raley, Ricks Hall, Mrs. J. W. Harris, W. G. Kirkpatrick, Ike Edwards, Mrs. R. J. Shlhran, For-rest Woods, J. W. Bergman, C. O. Harris, Traber Dobbins, T. H. Samdrelette, Mrs. P. E. Irley, Chas. C. Evans, Taswdl P. Haney, Robt. Cannon, Walter Dement, R. E. Wilson and others; that this has gotten to be such a common occurrence that some patrons have gone to this garbage can to get their magazines, should they not be in their boxes when they looked for them.
5. That you do not prepare return receipts when requested by senders of registered mail; that you have two registered letters of foreign origin on hand that have been held since December 1921, and February 1922, that you have lost registered letter No. 104, from Arena, Miss., addressed to Mr. E. S. Roberts, and that you have carelessly handled several other registered letters.
6. That you do not give postage due mail proper attention, one instance being when a letter addressed to Rev. W. I. Hargis by Bank of Oxford, was held several days without notice being placed in addressees box, later being called for and delivered to senders.
7. That you have permitted the following unauthorized persons to have access to the workroom of the office: Dick Bell, D. B. Holmes, Jimmy Jones, M. A. Pigford and others, and have permitted card playing in the office.
You will please advise me in writing, within five days from this date, stating whether the charges are true, in part or wholly so, and show cause, if any, why you should not be removed. Failure to receive a reply in this prescribed time, will be deemed as evidence that you have no defense to offer, and action will be taken accordingly.
Respectfully yours,
Mark Webster
Postoffice Inspector
Corinth, Mississippi
1970
ELVIS! DAVID! — Hendrik Hertzberg
ALOT was wrong with Elvis Presley’s first-ever New York appearance, at Madison Square Garden last weekend. Somebody in the Presley organization misjudged the desires of the crowd, and as a result Elvis was preceded by a standup comedian called Jackie Kahane. No doubt Mr. Kahane’s patter knocks ’em dead in Vegas, but New York is not Vegas and the Garden is not a night club. “Kids today . . .” said Mr. Kahane gamely, and lamely, as the audience clapped in unison. “I have a kid. Everything this kid eats turns to hair.” He was finally booed off the stage. There was fault to find with Elvis’s own performance as well. Instead of a rhythm section to back him up, he had a twenty-three-piece orchestra, a six-man rock band, and an eight-member chorus—a bit too much insurance, even for the Garden. The program was rigidly arranged and planned, allowing for little in the way of spontaneity, and it consisted largely of romantic ballads and sugary, easy-listening songs. The classics that most of the audience had come to hear—“Heartbreak Hotel,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “Hound Dog”—occupied only fifteen minutes of a fifty-minute program. The blandness was conceptual as well as musical, as when Elvis sang a non-controversial medley of “Dixie,” “All My Trials,” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The gyrations that made the man famous were seldom in evidence. Instead, he offered a repertoire of stereotyped actions and heroic poses.
Oddly, none of this made any difference. The audience was ecstatic throughout. (It would have been ecstatic even if Elvis had sung nothing but Gregorian chants.) During the intermission before Elvis’s appearance, our companion, a young woman who still has her Elvis scrapbook packed away in a trunk somewhere, told us a story that made it all quite comprehensible. “When I was twelve years old,” she said, “I was riding in the car with my mother and brother, and a song called ‘I Want You, I Need You, I Love You’ came on the radio. I immediately felt a certain twinge. My mother said, ‘This is that Elvis Presley they’re all talking about. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.’ My brother said the same thing. I just sat on the back seat and didn’t say anything. You see, I did know what all the fuss was about.”
The lights went down, the orchestra struck up what used to be called “Thus Spake Zarathustra” and is now called “The Theme from ‘2001,’ ” the audience began a full-throated scream, and Elvis appeared. He looked magnificent. His coal-black hair was fuller and drier than in days of old, and he wore a fantastical white costume studded with silver. He strolled back and forth on the stage, accepting the plaudits of the crowd like a Roman emperor. He looked like an apparition, and this was appropriate, because he has been a figure of fantasy for seventeen years. As the performance went on, it became impossible to avoid the conclusion that he is a consummate professional. He never cut loose, but he did not have to. The slightest gesture of his hand, the smallest inclination of his head set off waves of screams from the favored direction. The greatest ovation, except for the one that attended his initial appearance, came when he went into the first of his old songs, “Love Me.” “Treat me like a fool,” he sang. “Treat me mean an’ crool, but love me.”
Throughout, Elvis maintained a certain ironic distance from it all, sometimes engaging in a bit of self-parody. At the beginning of “Hound Dog,” for example, he posed dramatically on one knee, said, “Oh, excuse me,” and switched to the other knee. But he manifestly enjoyed the audience’s enjoyment, even as he indicated with a smile here and a gesture there that it all had less to do with him than with their idea of him. On our way out, we asked our companion if she had liked the show. “It was bliss,” she said. “I haven’t felt so intensely thirteen since—well, since I was thirteen.”
WHICH brings us to David Cassidy. For some time now, millions of nice little girls all over the country have had mad crushes on David Cassidy. “Little” in this context means a bell curve that starts about eight, peaks about eleven, and ends about fourteen; “nice” means tractable and above the pauper line. They
collect photographs of him, dream about him, write him letters, send him presents, and scream at the sight of him. Cassidy is a promising young actor with a pleasant singing voice and a smile that is sort of somewhere between cute and dazzling. He never meant to become an idol of little girls, but these things happen. A couple of years ago, he landed a part in a new TV sitcom called “The Partridge Family,” which was about a fatherless American family that was a rock group but was also really just a family. Cassidy played the teen-age son of the family and the lead singer of the rock group. The show was a hit, so the Partridge Family started cutting albums of the songs they sang on the show, and the albums were a hit, so Cassidy began making solo appearances as a singer. Earlier this year, he came to New York and played to a packed house at the Garden. The day after the first Presley concert, he was back here for a matinée at the new Nassau County Coliseum. Those who know about such things say that Cassidy is on the verge of being jilted by the little girls, but in the latest issue of 16 Magazine, which is a trade magazine for little girls, he is still the leading attraction. Full-color picture on inside cover. Lead article on page 3. Last paragraph from that article:
Now David is beginning to grow sleepy. There’s a soft glow around him and he feels all warm and cuddly. Somehow—through a trick of his imagination perhaps—he feels the girl he longs for right there in the room near him, and moving closer. As David drifts off into dreamland, he reaches out. He can feel her hand in his. He gently pulls her close to him, puts both his arms around her, snuggles up, smiles happily—and falls asleep holding his pillow in his arms.