Fang Duff Kahn Blog

A Hollywood Primer by Bruce Feirstein

robert — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 07:37:47 -0600

If you spend any time working in the movie business, sooner or later you learn there's a subtle game of one-upmanship that goes on. It's a sophisticated game that one plays in order to be perceived as an insider-and not at all dissimilar from the manner in which otherwise socialized packs of vicious jackals rip into one another's throats on the African veldt in order to establish dominance.

The object in Hollywood, however, is to establish your "cinematic bona fides" and stake out your position on the food chain (or car-valet return line). And as an added benefit-if that's how one terms "collateral damage"-you get to not only crush someone's ego but render their life, connections, and accomplishments utterly worthless. All of this, of course, is merely an adjunct to the old Hollywood ethos that "it's not enough for me to succeed; my friends must fail," but let's not get into that right now.

The ritual I'm describing here is often witnessed during meetings or at film-festival panels where the goal is always to reference the single most obscure Swedish, French, Japanese, or Spanish film possible. Better still if the film was never dubbed into English. Or, best of all, never even released. And if this doesn't work, simply invoke the "Buñuel." Almost no one I know in modern Hollywood has actually ever seen a film directed by Luis Buñuel, but it's always a conversation stopper. "I understand what Michael Bay is trying to accomplish, but Buñuel did it first."

On a more practical level, however, this game is played on a far more convivial and social setting-sort of like a steel-cage death match on a Bel Air tennis court-with hand grenades. To wit: if someone says they went to a movie premiere, you must immediately counter, "I saw a rough cut." (Note: Again, almost no one in Hollywood actually knows what a "rough cut" is, save, perhaps, Harvey Weinstein. But he's not telling.) If they claim to have seen a rough cut, you were on the set. If they were on the set, you read the first draft. And if they read-or wrote-the first draft, you had the idea fifteen years ago but passed on it because it wasn't commercial. Game, set, match.

We can now move on to the second inviolate rule-and ritual-in Hollywood: taking credit. In Hollywood, the basic social contract is that "I'll believe you're an actress if you believe I'm a producer." And this is followed closely by the notion that perception is reality: You're only as respected as the reputation you've managed to promote. Put another way: Failure is an orphan, but success has twenty-six coproducers. (Actually, success has twenty-six producers, eleven executive producers, twenty-two coproducers, one line-producer, four uncredited writers, the director, the leading man's manager, one extremely disgruntled original screenwriter who would have been much happier if they'd stuck to his original script . . . plus six German financial entities, each of whom has a single-card animated logo at the beginning of the film.)

So what does all this mean, on a practical level? Simple: nobody knows for certain anyway. So if it ain't nailed down, take credit for it. No matter how specious or completely tangential your affiliation may have been with a film-"I once dated the director's mother's podiatrist's car detailer"-it is your moral right and social imperative to take credit for all of it. In my own career, I first learned about this back when I was working on the lot at Metro, in 1938. I'd just finished doing a two-week punch-up on Oz (my contribution: Tin Man-needs a heart) when David Selznick called in a panic. He had Rhett, he had Scarlett, he had the Civil War, but he didn't have an ending.

"What am I going to do?" he pleaded.

"Two words," I told him.

"What, what?" he cried.

"Atlanta burns."

Of course, being responsible for the success of Gone with the Wind is but one of the very small contributions I've made to the film business. (Note closely: false humility. Let the person you're trying to impress stand there slack-jawed in awe.)

I remember when I first got into the film business, through Charlie Chaplin. He was a real son of a bitch. Always complaining about one thing or another. And the day I showed up on the set-to serve him a subpoena, if I remember correctly, on some morals charge, I think-he was grousing about the caterer. "Yo, Charlie," I told him, "stop your whining. Dance with the dinner rolls if you have to. Eat your goddamned shoe."

In 1940, I told Jack Warner: "No. Ilse gets on the plane."

Orson Welles: "Why don't you try doing something with the sled?"

W. C. Fields: "You can't dance, you can't sing. Work the drink."

And when Billy Wilder and I. A. L. Diamond came down with a case of writer's block, I was always there for them. Sunset Boulevard? "Do it in flashback." Some Like It Hot? "Put 'em in drag." "No. Not The Brownstone. The Apartment."

Needless to say, I could go on. So I will:

When Hitch shot too much footage, I told him: "The shower scene? Use a lot of cuts."

Simpson and Bruckheimer? "Pummel the audience into submission with sound."

Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman? "Lobsters. Play the scene twice."

Spielberg? "Make it a shark."

Scorsese: "Shoot what you know."

Peckinpah: "Slow motion."

Of course, I wasn't always right. And in retrospect, I'm still not entirely convinced, but I suppose I can see where Jim Cameron was probably better off not doing the Andrea Doria.

The point I'm trying to make here-and I forget who said it originally, so I'll take full credit-is that movies are moments. Glimpses and scenes-Groucho and the boys in the stateroom, Bogie and Raines on the tarmac-are what linger in our memories.

For me, the real test of a film is when I say I'm going to watch five minutes-and two hours later, I'm still sitting there as the end credits roll:

Bridge Over the River Kwai. His Lady Eve. The Apartment. Pat and Mike. Thunderball, Dr. Strangelove, The Verdict, Notorious, The Professionals, The Sting. Annie Hall, Animal House, Heaven Can Wait, The African Queen. Rififi, Chinatown. The Man Who Would Be King. All About Eve, The Hustler. To Kill a Mockingbird.

And virtually anything with Fred MacMurray, Sean Connery, Spencer Tracy, Robert Mitchum, Jimmy Stewart, Burt Lancaster, or William Holden.

As I think back on my years in the film business, I suppose my greatest days were in the late '60s. I was working on the lot at Paramount. And one Friday, I stumbled back from lunch at Musso's to find a script on my desk from this new young director Coppola. (I'd been at lunch with Bill Goldman. He was having problems with an "oater"-a horse picture, as we used to call 'em. I told him: "Billy boy, you've got a shoot-'em-up. A cowboy picture. Nobody's buying 'em these days. But have you thought about doing it as a comedy?" Funny thing is, I never heard from Goldman again. No gift, no flowers, no fruit basket. And nothing-not so much as a word-from Redford or Newman. Not even a case of salad dressing at Christmas. Let me tell you: It's a tough business.)

It seems that young Francis was having trouble with a picture. It just wasn't coming together. He asked if I'd take a look. So I read the script over the weekend and called him Monday morning.

"Francis," I said, "It's genius. The script is amazing. A saga. You, this Puzo guy, and Bob Towne-if he goes for credit: Statues at the show."

I heard him gasp. "But-"

"No, Francis," I interrupted. "Listen to me. You've got a chance to make one of the most beloved American movies of all time. A chance to imbue the American culture with characters and dialogue that will live forever.

"You've got the horse's head in the bed, the brother-in-law kicking out the windshield, the old man dying in the tomato patch. The wedding, the assassination of the police captain, the murder at the tollbooth.

"It's almost perfect," I told him.

"I know," he said quietly. "But how do I fix it?"

"Francis, that's simple," I said.

"Make them Italian."

Bruce Feirstein

Bruce Feirstein is a longtime columnist at The New York Observer, a contributing editor at Vanity Fair, and the best-selling author of Real Men Don't Eat Quiche. His screenwriting credits include the James Bond films GoldenEye, Tomorrow Never Dies, and The World Is Not Enough. He is responsible for the female "M" (Dame Judi Dench) calling Bond a "sexist misogynist dinosaur" and for the Robert Maxwell-inspired character Elliot Carver (portrayed by Jonathan Pryce) declaiming, "The distance between sanity and genius is only measured by success."

Charles Marsden-Smedley recommends The Servant by Joseph Losey

robert — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 10:39:39 -0600

Joseph Losey’s The Servant (1963), with a script by Harold Pinter, will captivate you from beginning to end. Dirk Bogarde plays a vengeful, cruel servant who ruins his master’s life and turns the British class system on it’s head.

The Servant
Joseph Losey
1963
If the mark of a great film is that it sticks in your mind forevermore, that you can watch it countless times without being bored by it, and that even the minor characters give memorable performances, then this 1963 Joseph Losey drama fits the bill. Set in a townhouse in Chelsea, just off the mecca of the decade, the King's Road, The Servant brilliantly depicts a master/servant relationship. The servant, Hugo (Dirk Bogarde), is manipulative and mysterious. His master, Tony (James Fox), is upper-class, weak, and naive. The film charts Tony's descent from a model of social acceptability into decadence. He is engaged to Susan (Wendy Craig), a nice girl from the country, but by the film's end, she has left to go back home and Tony's house is full of prostitutes-a decline into debauchery wholly engineered by his scheming servant, Hugo.
The film includes one of the most erotic moments ever filmed. Hugo convinces Tony that he needs more help in the house and finds a young girl, Vera (Sarah Miles), to be a maid. The first time Tony sets eyes on her, she is in the kitchen. He gets no farther than the door. Vera is a '60s cutie: big hair, huge eyes, striped jumper accentuating her ample curves. Their eyes meet. Nothing is said for a while. It's summer. She's not wearing shoes. She shuffles her weight nervously from one hip to the other. "It's hot in here," she says. The erotic tension is palpable-the silence broken only by a faucet dripping in the kitchen sink.

Two days before writing this piece, I was staying with some friends and mentioned that I had chosen to write about this scene. They asked me if I remembered who had played the maid. When I told them Sarah Miles, they exclaimed, "She's our next door neighbor, and she's coming to dinner!" Over dinner we talked about the film and Sarah remembered her parents visiting London shortly after the film's release. They only said two things: "You have sullied the family name" and "The servants will leave." Hugo would have enjoyed that.

Charles Marsden-Smedley
Museum and exhibition designer based in London.

Calvin Trillin recommends The Colony of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston

robert — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 12:22:06 -0600

An historical novel about someone most people have never heard of—but recommended by Calvin Trillin.

The Colony of Unrequited Dreams
By Wayne Johnston
1999

I don't think of myself as having much interest in historical novels, but two of my favorite pieces of fiction could be included in that category: The Colony of Unrequited Dreams, by Wayne Johnston, and The Siege of Krishnapur, by J. G. Farrell. (The winner of the Booker Prize in 1973, The Siege of Krishnapur takes place almost entirely within a British fort under siege during the Sepoy Rebellion against the British Raj in 1857. New York Review Books reissued it in a handsome paperback edition in 2004.) The improbable hero of The Colony of Unrequited Dreams is an actual historical figure, though one most Americans are unaware of-Joey Smallwood, who led Newfoundland into the Canadian federation. The major events Johnston describes in the novel actually happened: as a labor organizer in 1925, Smallwood actually did walk across the entire colony to unionize railroad section-men, for instance, and Newfoundlanders did actually vote to join Canada in 1949. But the most vivid character in the book, the St. John's newspaper columnist Sheilagh Fielding, is fictional. The novel has the sweep of a grand Hollywood movie, complete with seal hunt, and it manages to make a fully rounded character out of a place-the strange and fascinating colony of unrequited dreams. I once described it as "the great American novel, except it happens to be about Newfoundland."

Calvin Trillin

Calvin Trillin, a longtime staff writer for The New Yorker, is also The Nation's "deadline poet." His books include the novel Tepper Isn't Going Out, the memoir About Alice, and Deciding the Next Decider: The 2008 Presidential Race in Rhyme.

Milos Forman recommends Miracle in Milan

robert — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 08:33:18 -0600

I had never heard about Miracle in Milan before Milos Forman recommended it in City Secrets Movies. He writes: " . . . today, after almost fifty years, I still remember the faces of the extras in this film more vividly than the faces of many leading performers in the hundreds of films I have seen since." Something to remember when you watch the film

Miracle in Milan (Miracolo a Milano)
Vittorio De Sica
1951

In the '50s, when I was a film student at the university in Prague, the only Western films the Communist government approved for viewing by the general public were the Italian neorealist films. To be clear, they were welcomed because they were critical of capitalist society and this served the Communist propaganda machines well. One day, in the screening room of my school, I saw a new film: Vittorio De Sica's Miracle in Milan. After that day, whenever the film was shown at school, I was there. More than twenty times.

The film is a tragicomedy, a bittersweet fairy tale for adults about Milan's homeless, portrayed with such gusto and understanding of human nature that it took my breath away. Touching and funny, disturbing and soothing . . . there are so many gripping observations of human peculiarities, and such brilliant characterizations of personalities that today, after almost fifty years, I still remember the faces of the extras in this film more vividly than the faces of many leading performers in the hundreds of films I have seen since.

A little tragicomic history: despite the film's strong socialist sentiments, the Czech government still refused to allow Miracle in Milan to be shown to the general public. Their reason: at the end of the film, the homeless people, defeated, seize the brooms of Milan's street sweepers and fly off, flying higher and higher, toward a place where life is more just. The censors concluded from the position of Milan's Cathedral that they were heading toward the West-reason enough to ban the film.

Milos Forman

Czechoslovakian director Milos Forman directed his first English-language film, Taking Off (1971), winning a number of awards, including a Special Jury Prize at Cannes. Following this triumph, Forman directed the decathlon sequences of the multi-national Olympic documentary Visions of Eight (1973), then moved on to what many consider his masterpiece, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), which one Oscars in all five major categories, including Best Director. He won the Oscar again for his direction of Amadeus, a liberal retelling of the life of Mozart (as seen through the eyes of Antonio Salieri). Forman served as director of Columbia University's film division, and directed such critically acclaimed films as Hair (1979), The People vs. Larry Flint (1996), and Man on the Moon (1999).

Cathleen McGuigan recommends Love, Loss, and What I Wore

robert — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 18:08:44 -0600

Fashion Week is in full swing. Love, Loss and What I Wore is a lovely and very personal account of the complex emotions, memories, and expressions that ones clothing can inspire.

Love, Loss, and What I Wore
By Ilene Beckerman
1995

In the crowded bazaar of memoirs, I cherish a little book that came across my desk a dozen years ago called Love, Loss, and What I Wore. A fashion-conscious woman named Ilene Beckerman painted her life growing up in New York City in the 1940s, '50s, and beyond, in swift strokes-with charming color sketches of once-beloved outfits, accompanied by a few concise words about the memories they sparked. She didn't dwell on life's losses-the deaths, the divorces-but hers seemed especially poignant, planted like little bombs among the details of a sharkskin blouse or a favorite navy dress with a detachable cape collar. Like a gourmand remembering long-ago feasts, Beckerman recalled the delicious swishing sound made by a plaid taffeta birthday dress; the eternity it took to hem the yellow-striped circle skirt she sewed with her best friend in high school; and the expensive Chinese brocade dress she wore one New Year's Eve, when she found her first husband kissing the party's hostess at midnight. Maybe I love the book because I still have every party dress I ever owned (after my mother died, I found the childhood ones she packed in a trunk, wrapped carefully in tissue). I've often given this slim volume to friends (women only, of course). Its virtue lies in its understatement-and that, as its stylish author knew, is the key to true chic.

Cathleen McGuigan

Cathleen McGuigan is a contributor to Newsweek, where she writes about architecture, design, books, and other cultural subjects. Besides Newsweek, her articles have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Smithsonian, Harper's Bazaar, and Rolling Stone, among other publications. McGuigan was a Loeb Fellow at Harvard University and is currently an adjunct professor at the Columbia School of Journalism.

Note: The play Love, Loss and What I Wore, was written by Nora and Delia Ephron, is based on Ilene Beckerman’s book. It opened in October to rave reviews and will be playing off-Broadway at the Westside Theater until March 28th.

Kate Spade & Sarah Stonich recommend Bemelmans Bar

robert — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 09:08:54 -0600

Okay it’s 2010, but still Bemelmans Bar breathes Old New York.

Bemelmans Bar
1947, murals by Ludwig Bemelmans

Legend has it Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle hotel was one of the late Jackie O's favorite haunts, and that her protests, along with cries from others, helped save this landmark from being remodeled into just another Madison Avenue piano lounge ordinaire. Classy, but not fussy, Bemelmans is so elegantly dim that the most shimmering celebrity can be rendered inconspicuous in the shadows of the deep leather booths. Fine, since sighting the rich and famous isn't the appeal here-people come to see the walls. Four walls of murals, once vibrant and now perfectly subdued by half a century of nicotine fumes, teem with characters you will immediately recognize unless you spent your childhood in a culvert. Ludwig Bemelmans, author, artist, and restaurateur, was best remembered as the creator of the Madeline books. In 1947 Bemelmans brought his characters in out of the rain and painted them to life among seasonal views of Central Park. Ever since, 12 little girls in two straight lines, and tweed-clad, shotgun-packing rabbits welcome regulars famous and not.

For a half-century a self-portrait of Bemelmans near the bar has overseen the preparation of countless thousands of perfect martinis by the white-tuxed, black-tied bartenders. The bartenders are no-nonsense veterans, and while only a few could possibly remember Bemelmans himself, they speak of him as if this good friend has just stepped from the room.

I try to visit whenever I'm in New York. One afternoon when I was either dressed well enough or the lights were low enough that I might be mistaken for an Upper Eastsider, the barman headed to my booth with a phone in his hand, just like the movies, bowing from the waist-I swear he clicked his heels-and offered me the receiver, inquiring, "Miss Colgate?"

I was tempted by the mischievous Madeline perched just over my shoulder: Take the call, take the call!

"Miss Colgate?"

But gumption failed and I could only reply, "I wish." The barkeep and I had a good laugh, and a few moments later I was delivered a potent something on the house, which is exactly the type of hospitality Bemelmans himself was loved for.

Sarah Stonich
Author

For me, an evening at Bemelmans Bar has always been both fanciful and familiar. When I was a young editor just getting started in New York, a visit to Bemelmans meant slowly savored martinis and a meal of homemade chips, rosemary marinated olives, and divine mixed nuts. I would float through the front door, past the tastefully dressed giraffe with the yellow handbag that graces the wall near the entry, and casually settle in for a cocktail and conversation. Tommy, the friendly Irishman who has been tending the bar for more than 40 years, made me feel right at home. I would slip into a tufted leather banquette and slip back in time. By the end of the evening, I felt as though I had stepped out of a Noël Coward play. Today, the experience of turning back the elegant clock at Bemelmans is every bit as transporting. The refined service and urbane pianist, along with the warm glow of the room and Ludwig Bemelmans' amazing wall murals, have endured and I expect always will.

Kate Spade
Fashion Designer

Filmmaker Henry Griffin recommends Hellzapoppin'

robert — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 21:01:54 -0600

This may well be one of the wackiest movies ever made.

Hellzapoppin'
H. C. Potter
1941

"Any similarity between Hellzapoppin' and a motion picture is purely coincidental."-Disclaimer at the opening of Hellzapoppin'

Hellzapoppin' is easily the strangest musical Hollywood ever produced, a self-conscious meta-movie lost on the road between Tristram Shandy and Schizopolis. For one thing, it opens in the projection booth, with the movie about to begin. Then the "real" picture opens with a musical number set in hell, where we meet Ole Olsen and Chic Johnson, the stage comedians whose eponymous, plotless Broadway revue inspired the movie. After a few gags, they storm through the brimstone onto the soundstage of their movie, Hellzapoppin'. They quarrel with the director and writer, who ultimately sell Olsen and Johnson on the idea that their picture, like all pictures, needs a love story. Then we're in a Long Island mansion, for the love story we've just been pitched. Olsen and Johnson wander through the hijinks like a pair of lost Marx brothers, periodically interacting with the filmmakers (conceiving the movie) and the projectionist (exhibiting and manipulating the completed results). If none of this makes any sense, you're starting to get it. But let me tell you about the best part. Slim Gaillard (the jive-talking guitarist famous for "The Flat Foot Floogie") and his partner, bassist Slam Stewart, dressed as deliverymen, stumble upon a cache of musical instruments. Slim plays the piano with the back of his fingers (one of his old vaudeville tricks; he could also play the guitar and tap-dance simultaneously), attracting jazz musicians from around the mansion, who pick up the other instruments and jam. They strike up a number that attracts the Harlem Congeroo Dancers (dressed like the help), who exploit the Lindy Hop for all it's worth. Suffice to say, it's the most breathtaking, gravity-defying musical number I've ever seen. I'd take it over Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, over the Nicholas Brothers in Stormy Weather, you name it. Hands down.

Henry Griffin

Henry Griffin is a screenwriter and filmmaker in New Orleans. His films include Mutiny, Tortured by Joy, Flip Mavens, and The Flavor of Plaid. He is currently artist-in-residence at the University of New Orleans.

Sidney Lumet recommends Dodsworth directed by William Wyler

robert — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 16:59:53 -0600

Sidney Lumet recommends the magnificant Dodsworth directed by William Wyler. How did we ever miss this one?

Dodsworth
William Wyler
1936

Despite an over-the-top performance by Ruth Chatterton, I've always felt that Dodsworth was one of the finest American movies. William Wyler's simplicity, Sidney Howard's language, and, above all, Walter Huston's and Mary Astor's performances result in one of the most mature and powerful movies in my memory. The glory and debasement that love can bring into one's life have never been explored so tellingly. In fact, because of our sentimentality about love, rarely do we consider its destructive power. Dodsworth plunges into this world unhesitatingly with art and power and subtlety. In my view, a great film.

Sidney Lumet
Sidney Lumet has directed more than forty films, including 12 Angry Men (1957), The Pawnbroker (1964), Network (1976), The Wiz (1978), Dog Day Afternoon (1975), The Prince of the City (1981), and The Verdict (1982). In 2007, he directed the critically acclaimed film Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (2007). Lumet has garnered more than fifty award nominations, including an honorary Academy Award in 2005 and the Directors Guild of America Lifetime Achievement Award in 1993.

In search of the perfect martini—found in London, of course.

robert — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 18:10:59 -0600

Author Leslie Downer recommends the best martini in the world.

Duke's Hotel
35 St. James's Place sw1

The bar in Duke's Hotel, St. James's, is small, cosy and serves the best martinis in the world. Gilberto, the ﬂamboyant Italian barman, will provide articles from the world's press (New York Times, etc.) to testify to this. Then he brings out a bottle of rare vodka, available nowhere else in Britain and covered with frost, straight from the freezer, plus a glass each, similarly frosted. He pours in a generous measure of vodka and tops it with a swirl of vermouth and a splash of lemon, declaring "James Bond was wrong; martinis should not be shaken and should not be stirred". The resulting concoction is rich, creamy, silky smooth and ambrosial. I have enjoyed the best martinis in New York with a Japanese friend who was writing a book on the subject (of martini). All were pedestrian compared to this. Gilberto is now the star of her book.

Lesley Downer
Author

Anne Kreamer recommends The Daughter of Time by Josephne Tey

robert — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 08:14:25 -0600

If you enjoy mystery novels, author Anne Kreamer recommends The Daughter of Time, by Josephine Tey. It's one of a five book series featuring Tey's Inspector Alan Grant, Scotland Yard's top detective.

The Daughter of Time
By Josephine Tey
1951

I can trace my love of reading in a straight line back to the Stratemeyer Syndicate, starting with the maniacally cheerful antics of Bert, Nan, Freddie, and Flossie-The Bobbsey Twins. I was even more excited by Nancy Drew, fantasizing about a life of consequential intrigue with a bit of Ned Nickerson on the side. And after reading Harriet the Spy, I actually went so far as to buy a little journal and start furtively stalking my neighbors, hoping to ferret out some quirk in their habits that would point to a mysterious double life. This was the high Cold War era, and since there were nuclear missile silos in Kansas, why couldn't there be Soviet spies in my Kansas City suburb?

But it was a dozen years later, in 1978, that my future father-in-law introduced me to The Daughter of Time. Those kiddie mysteries that I'd devoured as a girl had, it turned out, whetted my appetite for the real thing, the graceful and lyrical Josephine Tey (a nom de plume of the Scottish writer Elizabeth Mackintosh). The novel begins by introducing Tey's hero, Scotland Yard Superintendent Alan Grant, bored senseless and bed-bound in the hospital as he recovers from a leg broken in the line of duty. He asks his actress friend Marta to relieve his tedium. Believing that a policeman's stock-in-trade is assessing people's faces, Marta brings him photographs of portraits from the National Gallery. Grant becomes obsessed with one image, a picture, he guesses, of a judge. Told that the painting is of the infamous Richard III, he's troubled that his professional eye failed him-that he'd mistaken a beast for a good man.

Tey seamlessly weaves together fifteenth- and twentieth-century England, provocatively probes the nature of truth (the epigraph at the beginning of the book is "Truth is the daughter of time"), and posits a compelling argument vindicating Richard III, conventional history and Shakespeare notwithstanding.

Each book in Tey's entirely too small canon, just six novels in all, is as beautifully crafted as The Daughter of Time and deserves to be savored.

Anne Kreamer
Anne Kreamer, author of Going Gray, is a former executive vce president and worldwide creative director of Nickelodeon/Nick at Nite, and was part of the founding team of Spy magazine.