Bailey Alexander

Advise and Consent; when process was everything and institutions still inspired something.

After hours, when mio marito is traveling I often while away the time watching old flics; film noir, gothic noir, classical drama, anything available on youtube for free.

I covet my DVD collection and iTunes provides personal faves like Witness for the Prosecution and 12 Angry Men when the flic isn't for free. Yet gems like Lured with George Sanders and Lucille Ball, playing against type, kinda, will cost you nothing, so why not imbibe.

Updating films like Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory and The Picture of Dorian Gray

Remakes work or they won't and movies like Willy Wonka might best be left alone. Johnny Depp is cute and cool but Gene Wilder took the role on one condition:

"When I make my first entrance, I'd like to come out of the door carrying a cane and then walk toward the crowd with a limp. After the crowd sees Willy Wonka is a cripple, they all whisper to themselves and then become deathly quiet. As I walk toward them, my cane sinks into one of the cobblestones I'm walking on and stands straight up, by itself... but I keep on walking, until I realize that I no longer have my cane. I start to fall forward, and just before I hit the ground, I do a beautiful forward somersault and bounce back up, to great applauseWhen asked why, Wilder replied, "because from that time on, no one will know if I'm lying or telling the truth." 

Modern Zeitgeists; parasitic spirit of our time.

“What I say today everybody will say tomorrow, though they will not remember who put it into their heads. Indeed they will be right for I never remember who puts things into my head : it is the Zeitgeist.” –George Bernard Shaw

Modern zeitgeists come in so many forms. Spirits of our time.

Few would argue Matt Drudge is the on-line media king of the muckrakers. Arianna Huffington proved brilliantly you could aggregate everyone else's content and take sole credit. Navigating effortlessly from the right side of politics to the left; the l-r paradigm was made for types like Arianna. 

Larry Kramer interviews Gore Vidal; to be or not to be 'gay' is not the question.

Had a chat with Gore Vidal last night. He never, ever disappoints. Reading the master is like sitting across from the lion, each of us seated in a high back chair, glass of Chivas in hand, relaxed.     

In Sexually Speaking, a series of essays on sex, GV opens his preface with a piece about Tennessee Williams, thinking Tennessee's gay critics cruel, sinister even, insisting everything outside the 'gay' condition must be marginalized. 

Gore admired Tennessee's response to this sort of dull bigotry: "Why should I limit my audience any more than it is already?"  Writers and artists first and foremost. Of course, if you wish to read about Tennessee's private life, you can, I did, it's graphic and honest. But it has little to do with his poetry, his plays. He was far more familiar with heterosexual life, especially in his early, fertile writing days. The heavy cruising came later on. 

GV ends his preface with a quote from Elaine May, "I love a moral problem so much more than a real problem." (where have these people gone...)

Candice Bergen in Gore Vidal's play "Best Man"

Just reading about Candice Bergen starring in Gore Vidal's play "Best Man" restores the faith and quietly calms the nerves; reminiscent of when celebrity inspired us to project our dreams onto their beauty. How could you not love her, I always did, 'specially when everyone else didn't...

Gore Vidal, my uber idol, America's biographer and prescient for over 6 decades, no wonder the plays' hitting a nerve.

Almost makes me want to go to New York, hit broadway and see the play.

Almost.

Robert Redford's "The Candidate" is Obama.

Watched it last night, along with Caligula. Allora, Gore Vidal's screenplay and Italian drama deserve their own post, certo. 

The Candidate's a treat to re-visit on so many levels, perhaps more entertaining today then 4 decades ago, when America was trying somewhat desperately to remain curious.

The Big Night happens to me every single day in a new country....

One of the funniest scenes in such a touching movie. Although it makes me laugh out loud mio marito cannot watch this film, for a myriad of reasons....yet somehow I think the Italians succeed, if not in the flic...

HBO; John Adams

Time to turn on HBO, if only to wash the taste of today's political theatre outta my mind. What a terrific 7 part series, chronicling the life of John Adams:

"...this remarkable historical figure, a man whose fiercely independent spirit, reverence for the rule of law and commitment to personal liberty profoundly influenced the values on which our country was founded.  

The miniseries also explores the extraordinary relationship between Adams and Abigail, his wife of 54 years, a partnership regarded as one of the most moving love stories in American history."

Now that's what I call an extraordinary husband and wife team. Interesting idea, that it was even made, showcasing this less than flashy guy, surrounded by all the cool ones who took away the spotlight; TJ, Ben, George, John Quincy and the gang. 

Of course, anytime Tom Hollander's in the cast, I'm happy. 

Cultural DNA and the British Costume Drama.

How do they do it. Perhaps its in their cultural DNA. Like acting. Their enunciation, that language. The English costume drama is displayed on film like no other.

In which other country is it so obvious. The Russian cultural DNA might reside in their poetry, their peculiar and superior discipline in almost anything having to do with the arts. If the Russians apply that discipline to mining their natural resources, it's all over people. Bow now. 

The UK and the US

Still a strong bond and so many movies to support said fact. Re-visited a personal fave last night called 84, Charing Cross Road.

Ann Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins are perfectly cast. The movie is nostalgic, dear and I'd forgotten all the lovely poems.  

Including this one by W. B. Yeats:

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

Melancholia; a religion reviews.

I found the latest film by Lars von Trier so visually stimulating, the topics so intriguing that after watching the movie I looked for movie reviews, if only to re-live it another way.

The articles appeared vague and confusing as if the topic of depression was too depressing to review. And then I tripped over a 'review' written by a Catholic in a weekly magazine called America. It's a lovely read as he avoids applying religious doctrine for much of the piece, ironically making it seem more 'christian' in both feeling and compassion. Refreshing in this random, violent world, filled to the brim with judgment.  

Meryl Streep channels Maggie Thatcher.

The Guardian: "Politicians, ugly buildings and whores," growled John Huston in Chinatown. "They all get respectable if they last long enough."

The Iron Lady makes its subject appear not merely respectable but poignant and sympathetic to boot: a woman who wanted nothing more than to change the world and make children happy (her children specifically). It leaves her shuffling plaintively from room to room, the legend at rest, or being examined by her doctor, who asks her how she feels.

"Feelings?" scoffs Thatcher. Feelings do no not interest her. Thoughts and ideas are what matter the most. "What we think is what we become. And I think I am fine." The Iron Lady, to a fault, seems to think that as well.

Penn State, Banksters and Perspective

I'm sure many people might agree Penn State's child abuse scandal isn't an isolated case, we've thousands of institutions protecting their image for all the wrong reasons. 

We're simply overwhelmed by the rate they expose our scars in modern times.  We're so concerned with whatever it is we're concerned with on any given day; our reputation, our situational morality, our livelihood, our own precious lives, so much more precious than others, apparently.  

And then a point in time arrives when life sinks so low that perspective raises its philosophical head as if to insist we're each complicit in our own special way. Doing the best we can, certainly with the very best of intentions, always.     

Once upon a time Orson Welles, America's most lovable renaissance man provided Chaplin with an idea for a film. Welles, the son of a bon viveur and sedulous globetrotter, whose mother's salon introduced introduced him to Art, Stravinsky and Ravel, a kid who met Hitler at 9, a man who could declare with eyewitness authority that Beijing and Peking were the two artistic centres of the world, yes, that man, our boy Orson provided perspective for a Charlie Chaplin film.

"Drive" is one melodic cruise.

And here I thought I couldn't stand synthesizer euro-pop. But it lends so beautifully to this flic, each scene ethereal, gorgeous and melodic, front to finish.  

Perhaps three simple concepts make this movie sublime; music, chemistry and the soothing aspect of time while driving. 

Unlike Europeans, who tend to chat with their kids over dinner, American parents get some of their best information on the road.  

Driving often provides an idyllic setting for candid conversation, the confined area creating a concentrated space for language to flow, on the road, at a peaceful pace. Quality over quantity.

Two words and one movie explain away the London Riots.

"Allow it." As uttered in the funny new sci-fi flick "Attack The Block"

Dear J.K., thanks for keeping it clean, classy and fun.

Thanks for making Hermione the most competent and Harry so fierce. Thanks for sprinkling eye candy throughout the movies so we might miss the joy of reading your magical books a little less.  

Chastity to Chaz, Cher and Cintra; if possible, happier than ever...

...about being a female, in fact, was just ruminating on said fact the other day, playing out my shudderbug voyeurism @Chez Bay.

Most interesting, informative read from Cintra Wilson. And no, no need to see the film. Most edible amuse bouche;

Cornel West, Harry Belefonte; a changing of the guard...

I listened to Harry Belafonte on Democracy Now the other day and was struck, always, by the clarity of his language, how concise his words. Like Paul Robeson and Lena Horne; there was an edge to their language; they were deeply aware of the struggle; their mission; their lack of civil rights. 

Monomyth vs Religulous.

Saw Bill Maher's "Religulous", but somehow found the laughs lacking.  I've a lot of time for Mr. Bill but the doc felt as preachy as those he tried to satirize.

Let 'em have their faith.  More than ever, people need scaffolding, an imaginary best friend, a sense of morality, an authority to remind them how to behave.  Yikes, after watching CNBC yesterday, anarchy must be close if not downright imminent. 

Then I read Obama's winding down the the war, gee, just in time, bit redundant, think the thief of Baghdad's already come and gone. Keep your Koran, and don't mind the flying blonde Dutchman in DC.

How patronizing to read this mornings' press; both American and English pray dearly and uncross their fingers long enough to type their anxiety about whether or not Iraqi citizens can keep a lid on their life. Jesus Christ.

Speaking of....

My passion for Michael Powell, my deep obsession avec Anton Walbrook.

At least, until next week, when all things become Maltese.

Mais...until I board the overnight train from Paris to Rome, prior to a 10 hr itinerary of literary luncheons and parties in Rome, just now, piano, piano, my quiet Thanksgiving holiday inspires I view the full suite of M. Powell's movies. 

There's enough genius and joy to fill the entire place that is Chez Bay. 

For two full days and nights, in between daily particulars, my flat is free of everyone but me, c n g.  After regarding and ingesting their haunting beauty, we crawl under the covers and regurgitate their vivid Technicolor magic in our dreams.  

And because the weather in Paris is so cold, the air so still, there's plenty of room along our morning errands to repeat the process.  So we do.

 

I may lunch w//Mich @ Cafe Flore, as I did, prior to preparing to depart Paris for a month, but nothing can compete.  Nada, rien.  Friendship, 'Potage St Germain' and Puilley Fume may try, but I am still living within these movies, or maybe they wish to live within me.

I have to work, for we all do, more than before, but not now, maintenant, regarder le cinema, premiere la ville éternelle.

The black and white movies are grand.  I cherish 'I know Where I'm Going' most, if only because one never does, really.   

'The Canterbury Tale' resonates..I recall having to recite the first 20 lines while at University, the very same lines opening the movie, but the pilgrimage pales, a bit preachy, though still joyful, funny, even the creepy voyeur in The Peeping Tom' simply proves M. Powell could do nothing but what he did.  Better than most.

And then, there's the trilogy, the majesty of 'The Red Shoes', 'The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp' and 'Black Narcissus'. 

 

They linger in the mind, long after the end credits have ceased to crease the screen.  Especially Narcissus....aVermeer painting, for two hours.l

 

What is it with Powell...his deep devotion to aesthetics, his ability to immerse, not judge, absorb, the tensions in his characters, which are insurmountable.  The psychological journey, which is too intense.  The colors.

I can identify with the disorientation of living in otherly places.  My atelier may not compete with the altitude of the Himalayas, but I get 'that fact'.  The way it alters, adjusts, illuminates and jars the sensibilities.

The nuns in Narcissus set against the Vermeer painting that is the entire film.

And then Anton.  Even David Mamet, the most pro Israel playwright of all time considers the man christened Adolph from Austria his second favorite, only to Roger Livesey, mister buoyant, mr happy man of all time.

I even watch Le Ronde, a french film.  I have no passions, lets alone obsessions towards french film, but the film is palatable, gorgeous and memorable because we can ingest and obsess on the impresario that is Anton, formerly Adolph, M. Anton Walbrook, the most fascinating actor to watch on screen, past or present.

 

Roberto Purvis, Pasolini, Garibaldi and political passions.

Dined w/Roberto Purvis, last time it was @ Chez Bay con mio marito on the left.

This week we dined downstairs.  I'd anticipated topics re his current passion, a documentary he's working on covering all things Italian, including terrorism and fascism for additional drama. I knew of just the place for such discourse.

This bistro, located near our flat, is surrounded by radicalism and confrontation.   

Weeks ago, I took a pic of the church next to the bistro, 'St. Nicholas Du Chardonnet'.  Just beyond the signage, you can see the genteel facade that, in fact, masks a truly unruly crowd of fundamentalist Catholics inside. On any given day one may find the priests, in full black frock garb punching one another out, literally....this place is wild.  The French like to get physical.

I do not exaggerate for there's no need in my life. On Sunday mornings you can hear the thunderous bells, beautifully competing w/Notre Dame down the street, while throngs of vigilant Parisians hold rear guard action against the modern and casual attitude towards religion in Paris. 

Caro Ianesco, who comments on my blog from time to time, knows the joint well, it's lock chock full of loonies. Enjoying a successful career in both writerly and painterly professions, Ianesco once took a detour along the studious and Priestly path in both Paris and Rome.  He is aware of this Church and its history.

I love the drama.  I've visited the place during the day, but unlike other churches that provide candles to light and meditation to occur, there is little peace, let alone candles to purchase. It possesses the eeriest energy. Makes me want to watch the Exorcist.  Again.

And then, just next door, lives this building, an official meeting place for political discourse and radical movement. While imbibing a petite glass of beer, one can practically hear the people screaming for Sarko's head.

What I find so fascinating is the juxtaposition of this rather sinister and radical petite space in Paris, co-existing quite nicely within the middle of such magical, peaceful energy that is the 5th arrondissement.

Partially due to it's close proximity to the Sorbonne, one sees enthusiastic students running down rue des ecoles, colliding and diving into diverse bookstores, restaurants, deeply ethnic environs exist everywhere...just downstairs along my street I have Tibet, Russian, Italian, French and South American cultural realities well represented.

So we enjoy our drinks and dinner, outside amongst the large round heaters.  My dear friend is both brilliant and beautiful, really. 

And, Roberto Purvis is politically passionate, very. John Hopkins, his alma mater, is sponsoring him to give a 3 day political seminar in Bologna, which io and mio marito will attend this April.  He's finished a well received short doc w/Norm Chomsky and currently, his doc is keeping focus Italian history circa the 60's and 70's, full of fascism, Catholicism and terrorism, which fits cozily where we sit....his doc also highlights the role the CIA played, controlling and terrorizing the Italians from voting Communist. Ironic as communism, or a form of, allows modern Bologna to thrive.

My husband knows this history well, as it's embedded deep into the fabric of Northern Italy. 

Sig. Purvis delves into the famous Italian poet/intellectual/film director Pier Paolo Pasolini.  Pasolini's film '120 days of Sodom' transposed De Sade’s tale of decadence and debauchery from 18th Century France to the last days of Mussolini’s regime in the republic of Salò.  It's all so terrifically complicated, as is Italy, reflecting while forming its 's cynical political ways, how consumerism is complicit to themes...

and always, our CIA...sigh..our interventions...

Prior to our dinner, Roberto wants to check out a building nearby that once houses the Red Brigade, the terrorists that assisted the CIA. We walk along the Seine and find it, entering the courtyard, wondering about the past as it lives and incites my companion's mind.

I think about this later, while knitting, where I can meditate on work and writing.   Passions.

I haven't knitted for years but the cold has entered la ville lumiere just as the light has left, albeit temporarily.

I take some pics for my galpal Joni, for she inspired me to pick up the needles in the first place and notice a rather grand pic of Garibaldi in the background. 

Mio marito is most passionate about Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Father of Italy, the fierce fighter that inspired the country to unite, way back when.  Imagine.

Forget FrOnce, Chez Bay's dinner discourse is pure, divine Italianate.

C  n G wait patiently for Roberto, Roberto and my fave galpal Miche.

Finalemente, mio marito arrives late from his latest plane ride, my 'baby brother' Roberto arrives from schmoozing w/french film people and Miche arrives from doing good somewhere in la ville lumiere...
Chez Bay was delightfully insane last night, gossip full of eccentric english men named Barry in need of rescue from the middle of frOnce, stories that would make Max Mosley look a proper poser, tales that made us laugh till the tears came, the kind that can't be replayed twice in written form, for some discretion is needed, n'est pas.

My bro Roberto, lifeboat, friend and neighbor when in Rome.  He's gorgeous, speaks 7 languages, at least, fluently, had some stints on Law n Order playing a man who rapes men, oh my! then had to make up and say nasty things in French for effect for the Americans, then riffs on some risque stuff, told the line writers a far more tepid version, No wonder the subtitles are often wrong, now I know!

Alors, his acting in the States and Italy is simply, like other, a vehicle for the political passions...he's just finished a short doc with Noam Chomsky, one that rec'd rave reviews and now, he's in Paris, looking for funding for larger doc, more controversial...

Mio Marito, mon mari Roberto, on the left; two happy Italian men with different views of modern Italy.  Because they work in different industries, perhaps, though both are well in sync of Italy's complicated past.  My guy knows the history well, for some of it occurred near one of the family's flats, in Riva, circa 40's.

Interesting bits and bobs, James Bond character, "the most dangerous man in Europe" during WW11, the German maverick soldier Otto Skorzeny, rescued Mussolini from the mountain prison of Gran Sasso.

The Social Republic was informally known as the Salò Republic (Repubblica di Salò) because the RSI's Ministry of Foreign Affairs (Mussolini) was headquartered in Salo, a town on Lake Garda.

But Roberto's doc focuses on Pier Paolo Pasolini and his perceptions of what happened circa '69 and America's interference w/ The Italian Social Republic, not just a puppet state of Nazi German, led by the "Duce of the Nation" and "Minister of Foreign Affairs" Mussolini.

Those Americans, always such good intentions, always managing, somehow, to fuck it up, no wonder the Europeans formed a union, weary of their 'assistance'. 

Will blog and sew threads together plus tard but at present I'm inspired to recall divine slices of bliss when we first arrived on this side of the pond some 8 years ago, staying at that flat for a month or so, on River Garda, as pristine as Lake Como, just not as trendy nor as Clooneyfied.  Those cliffs, the windsurfers skimming colorfully along the lake, the walks we used to take, wish I had time to go back...

Now that I think about it, the menus are still in Italian and German.....

Fierce? Certo.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/roberto-saviano-author-of-gomorrah-the-book-exposing-the-naples-mafia-965482.html

On the phone this morning with guys that are trying to uncover that which needs to be uncovered...I reiterated what someone said to me, 'just make sure you don't meet with sources in your own city,..."

This guy is fierce.  Italian and fierce.

Certo.

Gay Austrians, "Open Cafe's" and the Exorcist...

Haider was drinking in a gay bar before he crashed

The Austrian far-Right politician Jörg Haider was seen drinking in a gay bar shortly before his fatal car crash.

That's the headline this week. 

Hope he had as much as much fun as I did, especially prior to such a tragic and violent death.  Oy.

Alors, let me explain.... a biz associate came to Paris several weeks back, a brilliant IT guru guy that happens to be gay.  He inspired me to take him to Le Marais, the 4th, to engage in the gayer bits of Pareee.  We had so much fun, can't wait to go back....had been to other places, though not 'that one'....shared fun tales with another friend, he said, 'oh yeah, it's called the Open Cafe, it's great....' 

What of this Austrian.....such a controversial figure, sigh, at least he came out of the closet circa 2006, or so they say, can't imagine being locked up for so long, just the thought makes me a bit giddy n nervous, thinking of those days whilst still a young child, digesting the kidnapping of Patty Heart, back in '74, her drama, locked in 'that closet'.

I was so enthralled, so effected by her, that story, specifically, I was only 11.  Each week I would devour Time magazine, hoping and praying she'd find her way back home.  And yet that rebellious drama was captivating, wasn't it.  I was so sympathetic, so worried about her, then, afterward.

'Course, I was a bit weird, deeply curious, always, devouring every book in sight, in our library and beyond, before my friends, even reading the Exorcist the minute the book came out. 

Some time ago, I was exchanging words with my epistolary friend about said fact and he 'enlightened' me of other aspects I'd never contemplated about that book. 

Caro Ianesco, the stuff you know.

Strangely enough, I think the book was not simply meant to scare the hell out of everyone in the 70's, but rather, it's about faith, in one another; just look at the last scene with Regan and the Priest.  I thought for certain the pea soup would come out again, but she just kissed him, so sweetly...as you can imagine, he was so relieved, as was the mother, as they drove away in that large black Merc.

Shortly after that email exchange I called my beloved Muv, about a year before she died. I asked her, tentatively, but not really,  "didn't you think it was a bit odd, I mean, did you worry about the fact I was reading the Exorcist at 13, I was so young...."

Without missing a beat, she responded coolly and adroitly, "oh no, you were reading everything else in the library, everywhere, it balanced its way out, I was just happy you read so much..."

Muv...

"The Big Night"; another metaphor, maybe, or just one very funny film.

Finally, one of my favorite movies is found. 

Movie Plot: Two Italian brothers come to America to make good by opening an 'authentic' Italian restaurant. Primo the elder, the cook, is willing to bring his blessed Italian cuisine to the new promise land, Secondo the younger, isn't too fussed about the food, he just wants to touch every shiny and plastic new thing America has to offer. 

Secondo, basically the front man, the broker for the talent, Primo, puts up with his brother's desire to stay true, but Secondo's not such a savvy restaurateur; this new way of doing business, like Italian cuisine, takes time.  Both business and art must be learned, or rather, in the promise land, business trumps true talent. 

The successful 'Italian' restaurant across the street thrives, in this 50's milieu, the food's American style and they have entertainment.  People don't want to wait for something 'foreign', they want a steak and a scotch, now! basta cosi, capeeeech?

Primo and Secondo, even their names are funny.

The first scene is the fave; a dumpy couple from Jersey show up.  When Secondo serves the ravioli with basil on top to the husband, the risotto to the wife, the woman's response is nasal and knee jerk, "oh, hey, look, you got some leaves with yours, but what's this, where's the stuff that supposed to come with this, I don't see any seafood"...she moves the foreign rice around, upset.

They then request a side order of spaghetti, with meatballs. 

Secondo, "no meatballs"

"Whadayamean, no meatballs"

"Sometimes the pasta just wants to be alone," Secondo suggests. 

Secondo takes the order to Primo but Primo refuses to serve the woman two starch dishes.

"Philistine!" he yells.

It just gets better and better.  The crescendo occurs on the Big Night, the night they expect a famous patron to attend the party, a famous jazz musician who will then bring them both business and stature.  They spend their last red cent preparing  a 10 course feast in which a young girl begins to cry after the final course, so sated is she, weeping, 'my mother can't even cook...'

My beloved Muv could, she didn't necessarily relish the day to day, but every blue moon she'd host an elegant dinner party, sometimes 'themed' before they were 'in', with divine fare, her cheesecake recipe was stolen by a top restaurant in Seattle, she was making marzipan before anyone, she was so skilled and artistic those miniatures are not any different from what I see here in Paris....I can recall a time I was to attend a reception where something home made was required, as I was heading out the door she handed me an elegant egg white canister, long before 'packaging' was understood, she'd whipped up some amazing duck pate that afternoon.

Some people try to buy style, Muv was style.

I digress.

I love this movie.  Food is integral to our lives.  Until I met mio marito, I was an independent working girl, hedonistic even then, but entertaining my clients in restaurants only.  Pauvre mon marie, he's rarely allowed in the kitchen, but every now and then he whips up something fabu, Italian children learn early and well.

His uncle Giacomo is a bit of a Primo. He lives near Bordeaux, spends his entire morning finding the right ingredients, then eats and drinks his way through a superb lunch, sleeps, then does the same thing for dinner. Everyone is surprised he hasn't died of a heart attack, but no one is having as much fun as Giacomo. 'Cept for me, maybe, until last week.

The other uncle, Franco, lives in Milan, he's an engineer, thin and fussy, different, he and his wife have a very serious garden, it has everything.  I've seen Carla make hand made pasta, the thought of not cooking first principal is simply implausible.  Slow food is not a concept, it is their life.

Btw, they're northerners.  Once, when I was dining with Giacomo, we swapped recipes, I was describing my eggplant bundles which are such a hit.  No one has been able to replicate my dish in the same way as I, Caro Ianesco suggests he has, but he's the only one I'd believe. 

Anyway, as I'm rattling off the recipe he begins to grow very agitated and I'm clueless as to why until he goes on a rant about how Mozzarella is an 'Arab' cheese.  This is so predictable, the Northerners call the Southerners Arabs and the Southern Italians call the Northerners Germans, which is sort of true, in a way, even though they are all very Italian, some cultural differences persist, I suppose. 

He has since warmed to me, we are kindred spirits after all, but at that lunch he was so pissed that when I didn't finish my dessert he began shoveling the baked apple into my mouth.

Even their humour is sorta German.

This movie is so endearing, I love absolutely every minute of this film, it's not just a perfect recipe, like our favorite classics, its messages resonates, but that ship has sailed, hasn't it.

The States are great, but mio marito's uncles wouldn't move to the States, now or then, and when mio marito's mother lived there briefly after the war, acting as seamstress for Scaasi, even delivering a dress or two to Mimi Eisenhower, even then, I don't think she liked the States much. 

When she visited Seattle a decade ago, the 'coffee capital' , mio marito showed her the 16oz latte, it was incomprehensible to her, I think she secretly mused 'Philistine!'