The Park, The Wharf, The Animals: A Final San Francisco Album

It has been nearly a month since we embarked on our sweet trip to San Francisco. I wish I could share the entire experience with you here.  Mark and I look back on it with a sense of golden wonder, almost nostalgia.  I will not let the warm embrace of the city and the good feeling of our languid exploration fade.  I want to record some of those things I will remember fondly.  All of the photos (except the last two) are Mark's or my originals.

GOLDEN GATE PARK:  California's answer to Central Park; Chicago's Lakefront between Mag Mile and Lincoln park may qualify as a similar attraction.  But the trip through the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood by streetcar, and the 5-mile stretch of  the park and its attractions, ending at the Pacific Ocean, make this one of my favorite places on earth that I have visited...

One could spend an entire day strolling in the Botanical gardens to gape at the Redwoods; sipping tea and stepping through the delicate landscapes of the Japanese Gardens; becoming enlightened at the Science Museum or the deYoung Art Gallery;  climbing Strawberry Hill, surrounded by the row-boaters lagoon, for views of the city among cool pines; or just wandering aimlessly through miles of gently landscaped walks.

FISHERMAN'S WHARF AND THE BAY: We could not wait to get back to the Piers on Fisherman's Wharf.  Interesting sculptures and fountains sit at the threshold of wonderful architecture and painterly horizons.  Sometimes great rolls of fog float swiftly in, and soften the entire canvas.  The Farmers' Market at the Ferry Building offers an incredible variety of items from unusual fruits and heirloom vegetables to goat's milk yogurt and tastes from local restaurants.  The ferry from the bay to Sausalito, a small artist's enclave and quaint shopping village, was quick and refreshing. 

ANIMALS: There was Duke, the little Basset hound mix at our inn; and the tame squirrels at the park; the sea lions at the wharf; and the buffalo in the park.  Not to mention the myriad pets, mostly dogs, who were seen walking their caregivers bravely up and down the steep hills around the Castro. And the parrots (see post from September 30).  The creatures provided a sense of laid-back acceptance, and more than anything, made me feel at home.

LAST BUT NOT LEAST: "BEACH BLANKET BABYLON"--A terrific musical review that has played in San Francisco for over 30 years!  Nothing is sacred, and everyone is fair game in the wickedly satirical skits and numbers.  Well-known for the outrageous headdresses, some of which weigh about 300 pounds! Lots of good laughs, and a cast filled with attractive and talented singers and dancers.  A real highlight...an unforgettable evening in a memorable trip.



Wild Parrots--A San Francisco Album, and Film Review

One day while we were climbing up to Coit Tower, a monument to firefighters built in 1933, I was thrilled to see San Francisco's wild parrots.

Soon after my pet cockatiel, Cookie, passed away, I saw the documentary film "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill".  Although I was predisposed to be moved by this film, I enjoyed it on its own terms as an effective documentary.  Judy Irving directed this story of Mark Bittner, an unemployed and virtually homeless musician, who for several years was allowed to occupy the guest house of a generous couple near Telegraph Hill.  One day he spotted a number of parrots, which seemed to be surviving on their own. With great patience and stealth, he held food out to the birds until they trusted him, and ate from his hands. 

Soon, he was their unofficial caretaker.  His care for these birds gained him international fame, and an unexpected life-change after making the documentary.  The film nicely balances the nature of these fascinating birds with a personal human story of a man at a crossroads, and how he and these creatures helped each other in surprising ways.  Its tone is light throughout, and disarming and moving.  The birds provide humor and melancholy, and  Bittner and Irving build a sly conversation with a giddy payoff.  The warm-hearted surprise ending is one of the many reasons I loved this film.

Our climb to Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill was challenging and thrilling.  We were breathless from the effort but more from the view...  The building is a simple cylinder, the inside first floor completely done in murals funded by a New Deal federal employment program for artists.

We got some beautiful photographs through the windows of the lookout tower.  We met many tourists from around the world; I was able to use my Italian to speak to a young couple from Rome, who, by the time we were through, had invited us to their home for dinner when we visited.

After the ride down the elevator, as we prepared for the bus ride back down the hill, I heard the sound...the unmistakable sound of the parrot flock nearby.  I looked up into a large tree to see a couple of the Cherry-Headed Conures snuggling together. Soon a loud noise startled the flock, sending them circling continuously overhead. 

I was awe-struck, and started to cry at that moment.  These birds, unusual, and not native to this nontropical area, symbolized the diversity that was embraced in San Francisco. In some unexplainable way, they seemed to sense my love for them, and waited for me there so I could catch a glimpse of them.

A Play: "Don't Ask"--A San Francisco Album

While we were in San Francisco, we took a chance on a new play called "Don't Ask",  performed at the New Conservatory Theater Center on Van Ness Ave.

"The mission of The New Conservatory Theatre Center is to champion innovative, high quality theatre experiences for youth, adults and artists, to effect personal and societal growth, enlightenment and change."
nctcsf.org

We discovered the theater by chance one afternoon as we were making our way back to the streetcar after an afternoon exploring City Hall and the surrounding Civic buildings.  I admit that the advertising postcard inside the theater box office peaked our interest.  The play was part of their Pride series, and since we had a free evening that weekend, we decided to  support this small theater, and possibly have a stimulating theatrical experience in the company of others from the gay community.

The one-act, two character play set in Iraq involves a private and his superior, their dangerous sexual relationship, and the power games and blackmail that ensue. 

It did not directly confront the issue of "Don't Ask Don't Tell" as I expected.  Rather, the playwright, Bill Quigley, tried to set up a situation of deception and betrayal at the rotten extreme of where DADT may lead. I don't think he was entirely successful in drawing a parallel between the central incident (described in monologue) of the brutal "invasion" (assault) of an Iraqi prisoner, with the immorality of the war. And the shift in power between the closeted commanding officer and the delusional private was not given the proper build-up.

Part of the problem was in the direction.  The actors began in their climactic modes, and so what was meant to be a cunning role-reversal never played that way. The actors, Adrian Anchondo as the private and Ryan Hough as his superior, were uneven; Anchondo had the larger role dialog-wise and was the mouthpiece for the playwright's message; Hough was almost too low-key (except in his intense bursts of physicality) and delivered most of his thankless lines in a clenched, Clint-Eastwood glower.

The play itself had many dead spaces, and ended abruptly, albeit powerfully at the blackout.

And yet...I enjoyed the experience, even if the play itself left me lacking.  To have the opportunity to support work by new playwrights, directors and performers is exciting.  There is an added sense of anticipation in such an intimate setting: the auditorium had barely 75 seats.  And even a mediocre play done on this small, intimate scale provides other aspiring writers to turn out even better work.

I felt a great connection to the theater staff and the patrons around us, and in one more way, I imagined myself as truly a part of a community of San Franciscans that would someday welcome me and Mark with open arms.

Click on this link to see some scenes from "Don't Ask".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Rno2d57emw

"The Subject Was Roses" and Patricia Neal--A San Francisco Album

Thank goodness for theaters like The Castro in San Francisco and The Music Box in Chicago.  They keep alive the exhibition of classic and nearly forgotten films, on a big screen, projected lovingly the way they were originally intended to be seen.

It was fortunate that we arrived in San Francisco the only night the Castro showed  "The Subject Was Roses".  It was part of a small tribute to actress Patricia Neal, who died on August 8.  Neal won an Oscar in 1963 playing opposite Paul Newman for her brief but impressive performance in her role as Alma, in "Hud".

 

In 1968 Neal was one of three actresses who lost in the Best Actress Category; she was a nominee for "Roses" when Barbra Streisand ("Funny Girl") and Katharine Hepburn ("The Lion in Winter") won in a tie. (Added trivia: Joanne Woodward was also in the running that year in a film directed by Newman, "Rachel Rachel". Vanessa Redgrave, in "Isadora", was the third also-ran.)

I had wanted to see "The Subject Was Roses" all my life.  I saw it once on a very poor-quality VHS tape, and I missed a lot due to the video "noise".

It was a special thrill to be there at the Castro Theater on a Thursday night with a handful of serious film buffs, to see an Oscar-winning film from 1968, (Jack Albertson picked up Supporting Actor).  I had that vague boyish thrill of the forbidden, when going to the movies on a school night was a rarity, or when I was allowed to attend a movie that was more adult in nature.

"The Subject Was Roses" is adapted from what is basically a three-character play, set just after WWII.  The son of an aging middle-class family returns from the service, and opens up old resentments between son and parents, and between mother and father.

It is a gentler but no less a wounding treatment of family dynamics and deception as "Virginia Woolf".

Albertson plays the more difficult role of patriarch John Cleary, who seeks an opportunity to rekindle a loving relationship with his wife. His is an unlikeable, inflexible character, but Albertson skillfully navigates the screenplay's last-minute attempts to make him more appealing. His John Cleary deftly embodies the stoic masculinity of countless fathers who came of age in the 1930's.

A young (and very attractive) Martin Sheen plays Timmy, the prodigal son, caught in a tug-of-war of affections and allegiances between his parents.  It is Timmy, who learned too well how to preserve the illusions of his parents and divert the conflicts under the surface, who precipitates the film's main crisis with the titular bouquet of roses.

Neal, as Nettie Cleary, is mesmerizing, compelling, powerful and remarkable.  She manages to communicate the seething self-conflicts with amazing and subtle reading of her dialogue, and commands the screen in searing closeups. Nettie achieves the broadest character arc in the film, going from an almost incestuous attachment with her son, and jealousy of her husband's attachment to him, to an odyssey of self-discovery and eventual resignation.

The film offers the experimental flourishes and the muted,  "realistic" lighting and color I loved in '60's films like "In The Heat Of The Night" and "Midnight Cowboy". 

After an intense emotional argument, Neal's Nettie leaves the house all day, and causes concern in her household.  Without dialog, Nettie simply "goes downtown, walks around", has dinner, and reflects on her life.   It's a lovely interlude, a montage of her meandering activity, scored to a haunting ballad by the wonderful Judy Collins.

Upon her return home, Neal delivers the most important words in the film, summing up the motivation of millions who choose not to go beyond the familiarity of their lives.  For a sensitive viewer, I think this brief dialog could change one's life, and sums up my own significant fear as I try to understand the process of reinvention:

Nettie Cleary: In all my life, the past twelve hours are the only real freedom I've ever known.

Timmy Cleary: Did you enjoy it?

Nettie Cleary: Every moment.

Timmy Cleary: Why did you come back?

Nettie Cleary: I'm a coward.

With the death of Patricia Neal, I hope more people will seek and re-discover this movie.  Frank Gilroy wrote a play about a particular family that has become universal over the years.  And Jack Albertson, Martin Sheen and Patricia Neal have given us characters from a bygone era that still can tell us something about how we live now. 

I will always equate the great satisfactions of "The Subject Was Roses" with the very special surroundings of the Castro Theater and the circumstances of my finally seeing it as it was meant to be seen.



Life in the Castro--A San Francisco Album

If we had stayed anywhere else but the Castro neighborhood during our San Francisco visit last week, we would have wanted to go there all the time.  It turned out that we didn't spend most of our time there anyway, and so in that way, it felt more like a home base.  Staying in a Victorian house in the middle of the Castro was as close to an authentic experience of living there as I could have hoped for.

That first afternoon Mark and I conditioned our legs on the hills as we walked around a six-block radius of the commercial district, Castro St, 18th St. and Market St.  Right away we encountered Harvey Milk's Castro Camera shop, which is vacant now, but in the windows are posters that describe the significance of the storefront, and Harvey himself.  In spite of "Milk", I suspect that many younger residents don't get that special feeling of belonging just sitting there on the window ledge, looking out at Castro Street as Harvey might have seen it.  Me?  I was inspired.

We visited local shops and read menus for the many cafes, for future dining adventures.  We also purchased our weekly BART pass...the public transportation system....which allowed us on to streetcars, buses, the subways, and the Registered Landmark Cable Cars.  Along the way we stopped in the Human Rights Campaign store, and were greeted by Colton, whose friendly inquiries and sincere interest made us welcome. 

The Village Inn looked just like any house you might find in the neighborhood.  A locked front gate took us to a 12-step staircase, and as we first entered the front door, Duke, the owners' Basset Hound-Golden mix, greeted us with wagging tail and busy nose.  To the left was the Mix Bar, a lively neighborhood hangout, and Up Hair, much quieter, but the proprietors were outside a lot, and friendly.  To the right was Poesia, a charming newer Italian restaurant with a Poetry Lounge and a wall on which Italian movies were projected. 

The lobby of the inn was decorated by owner Paul, in an eclectic mix of Victorian furniture and colors and European vases and paintings and other artifacts. Deon, his partner, did the day-to-day management of the rooms and public areas.  Both of them were warm, interesting people who have become new friends. Our room was to the back of the second floor. It was rather plain but cozy, and well away from the noise of 18th street, although the dull roar of patrons at the Mix lulled us to sleep.

In the afternoon, the front of the building was in shade, and one afternoon I sat on the top step with my journal and recorded what I saw, and what I thought about it.  As the warm breeze embraced me, I gazed down at the traffic and the variety of people who passed by and barely noticed me writing furiously.  There was a noisy but manageable buzz in the air, the sound of anticipation of fun yet ahead on a Saturday night.

The historic Castro Movie Theater beckoned right around the corner.  On our first day as we walked past, the marquee told us that a tribute to the recently-deceased actress Patricia Neal featured a series of her films.  I stopped in excited surprise..That night only, they would show 1968's "The Subject Was Roses".  Mark kindly agreed to go to the movies that night so I could have the experience of viewing on a big screen a movie I had never properly seen, and view it in the confines of a city landmark with much significance to the gay community.  I'll write more about the film very soon....

  

BACK FOR ANOTHER YEAR--A Sunday Journal

It has been nearly a week since Mark and I returned from six days in San Francisco.  The extra-ordinary geography transformed me in much the same way that I imagine the original terrain, with its impossible hills, was slowly transformed into a languid and vital place to live and visit.

Whether we managed to find the places and the experiences we were predisposed to enjoy, or whether they mysteriously found us, the fact is that we were constantly in love with whatever the moment had presented to us, wherever we happened to be.  It was as though the city prepared itself especially for us.  A brief sketch of a few of these things reads like a list that might describe us:

-The little dog who greeted us as we first arrived at our B&B;
-Our sparse but cozy second-floor room next to a busy bar, whose muffled rumbles of voices and music lulled us to sleep at night;
-The couple who ran the place, one a retired architect and musician, the other a Russian art collector and film buff;
-The famous Castro movie theater around the corner that showed, for one night, a movie I have wanted to see all my life;
-The Italian tourists I met and befriended, who patiently allowed me to speak haltingly in their mother tongue;
-The Italian restaurants (especially the one right next door that projected Fellini films on its wall);
-A long-running musical-comedy revue that welcomed me with numbers from "Hair" and "Nine";
-Architecture of the residential homes and the commercial buildings that pleased me on a deep unspoken level, as if I belonged within those spaces;
-Macondray Lane, the inspiration for Armistead Maupin's Barbary Lane;
-City Lights Bookstore, whose atmosphere was effervescent with the spirits of Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsburg and Ken Kesey, and which had the best Film Book section anywhere; 
-Harvey Milk's camera store, vacant now, conferring a blessing on us and a hearty welcome to enjoy it all; 
-The ease of getting around without a car; and walking everywhere, with our camera at the ready;
-The best coffee I have ever had, anywhere;
-The flock of wild parrots of Telegraph Hill made famous in the book and documentary.... and the sea lions, squirrels, and many, many dogs....

What I realized is that, although I can no longer consider myself "young and impressionable", I still am at least "impressionable", and hope never to lose that trait, that openness to awe, to allow one's life to follow wherever beauty and compassion might lead it, tempered with wisdom, informed by history. 

That gets harder with age....but it's a necessary ingredient in reinventing a life, changing an attitude, overcoming a flaw....

As I start Year Two of this journal, there will be a new Series, the San Francisco Album, with short essays and original photos of the experience.  The city needed to reinvent and rebuild itself after the1906 Earthquake, and several times since then....I hope personal re-invention will not require as seismic an incident!  

Plus...the usual re-views, of movies and music and theater, and the outpouring of heartfelt opinion on anything from animal shelters to gay rights, from political absurdity to healing humor.

Welcome back!