“For sheer, unadulterated terror there have been few films in recent years to match the quivering fright of Sorry, Wrong Number–and few performances to equal the hysteria-ridden picture of a woman doomed, as portrayed by Barbara Stanwyck.” — Cue Magazine.
My wife and I enjoy noir films. Fortunately, Turner Classic Movies (TCM) owns a lot of them and shows them frequently.
“Sorry, Wrong Number” began its life as a 1943 radio play written by Lucille Fletcher and starring Agnes Moorehead. When Fletcher was asked to expand her play into what became the 1948 feature film, Moorehead was considered a character actress and didn’t get the role. That went to Barbara Stanwyck who–in my view–turned in a stunning performance that received an Oscar nomination. Some critics thought the radio play was stronger due to the scenes that had to be added to bring the story up to feature film length. According to WNYC, “No less an authority than Orson Welles called it ‘the greatest single radio script ever written.’”
In short, a neurotic invalid (Stanwyck) accidentally overhears a phone conversation plotting her own murder. She’s bedridden and spends most of the movie on the phone trying to puzzle out the strange mix of conversations, callers, and busy signals. At one point Stanwyck is told to call a specific number for information about her husband and, after trying and not getting an answer, she asks the operator what the number goes to. The morgue, she’s told.
Of course, we wait for the line “Sorry, wrong number.” We wait a long time. When we finally hear it, it packs a punch. The suspense is off the scale and that’s what makes it a great noir film.
–Malcolm
When I was five years old my parents, my two younger brothers, and I were traveling between adjacent states to visit relatives. We were in a hilly area when the tractor-trailer we were passing drifted into our lane to (apparently) pass a smaller car in front of it. In those days, it was common to honk the horn twice before passing, so the driver of the truck either didn’t hear our horn and/or didn’t check his side mirrors before starting to pass.
I’m currently wearing this “Men’s Scotch Plaid Flannel Shirt” from L. L. Bean. This is a buffalo plaid and one of my favorites in addition to the Stewart and Campbell plaids. I probably wear the Campbell “Black Watch” pattern the most because it is, after all, the family’s colours.
Denim season ended on Hallowe’en. I know the Levi name is famous, but Wranger, which came on the scene in 1947, fits better for those who work rather than those who want to look like they work. Seriously, Wranglers are much better than Levis if you like horses. Wrangler advertises its denim with this picture which–trying to be modest here–looks like me.
She appeared as head nurse Dixie McCall throughout the entire 122-episode run of the action-adventure drama “Emergency!” from 1972 to 1977. The series focuses on the paramedics, firemen, and hospital support staff, showing (I think) a more accurate look at firefighting techniques than shows like “Chicago Fire.” London’s second husband Bobby Troup (to her right in the photo) was also in the cast. The show was produced by her first husband Jack Webb. Like London, Troup came from the music business.
But now I find most of the news so grim, it’s hard to place a humorous spin on it. That’s too bad because satire has been a time-honored method of poking fun at inept leaders and their policies. “MAD Magazine” was a favorite of mine when I was in highschool. Even better was “Punch Magazine” (1841 – 1992 with a short-lived revival between 1996 and 2002) from Britain. I found it amusing even thouh I was never really up to dte about British politics.
I’m also a fan of France’s Charlie Hebdo which features work that’s a bit edgy.
Goodness knows, he left enough on the front porch. He must have slacked off when we didn’t bring them into the house and fry them up with sawmill gravy. I swept them off into the yard hoping they’d serve as warnings to new rats moving into the area.
When I was in college, the wine hidden in dorm rooms and under the seats of our cars was usually Mateus. This rose wine from Portugal came on the scene in 1942 and was a part of rapidly developing wine markets in the U.S., U.K., and elsewhere. It’s a nostalgic drink for my generation now, though I haven’t had rose wine for years.
No doubt the cabins are long gone. But they make for fond memories of spending time with a couple who loved the lake, the fishing, the chipmunks that ran wild and could be tempted with peanuts we dangled on strings, and even the “monster” hiding out there in the dark. In all ways, the place was heaven and I have always wished that a ripple in the space-time continuum would make it possible to go back.
Malcolm's Round Table 