A tall dark stranger. Loads of London fog. A coquettish showgirl. The back streets of Whitechapel. A debonair inspector. And Jack the Ripper. These are the ingredients that have made Marie Belloc Lowndes’ novel The Lodger such an eternal favorite.

First published in McClure’s magazine in 1911, the mystery, soon issued in book form in 1913, cleverly preyed on the public’s fascination with the Ripper case, which remained unsolved (and still is), and played off the paranoia and hysteria that arise when a ruthless serial killer is on the loose. Lowndes was the sister of the author Hilaire Belloc. And while she may not have had his subtle flair for literature, she had the equally valuable common touch. Her book has been in print since it was first published. In fact, four films have been made based on her novel.

Recently I’ve been on something of a Lodger kick. While researching the wonderful, but now nearly forgotten, actor Laird Cregar, I discovered that the Fox film, The Lodger, was finally out on DVD and available on NetFlix. I leapt at the chance to view it. Starring some of my favorite Hollywood stars, including Merle Oberon, as the disarmingly beautiful showgirl, and George Sanders, as the devastatingly debonair detective, Fox’s 1944 version of the Lodger stands out as arguably the best in the series. But it is Laird Cregar’s performance that makes the film so worth watching. Physically a cross between Vincent Price (particularly his slightly whispered, gentleman’s voice) and Raymond Burr (especially Burr’s soulful eyes and bulk), Cregar is in a league of his own.

Breathing new life into the stereotype of Ripper as a madman, Cregar imbues his character with uncanny pathos and cunning. While it is evident from the beginning of the film that he is in fact the killer, one is drawn to him, just as Merle Oberon is, despite his ungainly physique (Cregar was over 300 pounds at this point), and bizarre personality. Cregar starts off slow but gradually reveals his character in flashes of brilliance. There’s one scene in particular in which Cregar shows Oberon a small painting of his “brother.” It’s a self-portrait that the artist made, showing a devilishly handsome young man (who looks nothing like Cregar at all). Cregar goes off on a mad monologue about how beautiful his “brother” was, oozing a disconcertingly incestuous and homoerotic obsessiveness that isn’t really in the script. It’s all in the way Cregar delivers the lines — and in his eyes. It is a chilling scene that transports this film from being a typical Hollywood Gothic thriller into a realm of Poe-like surrealism that transcends the genre. And which also makes it uniquely ahead of its time. Blaming the cause of a serial killer’s rage against women on his repressed homosexual urges had not yet become a tired Hollywood cliche.

The same can also be said of the first two Lodger films that starred the great English musical star Ivor Novello. I could go on at length about the appeal of this amazing persona.

Little known today in America, Novello was on a par with Noel Coward in England, writing musicals, starring in films, penning unforgettable songs, producing elegant theatrical spectaculars. He even found the time to write the screenplay for the original Tarzan, The Ape Man film (starring Johnny Weissmuller)! And not only that, he was devastatingly handsome. In the 1920s, Ivor Novello was one of the most instantly recognizable faces in the world.

The first Lodger film was a stylish silent movie directed by none other than Alfred Hitchcock, in 1926. It can be seen as one of his first masterpieces. And the first in a long line of thrillers. Hitchcock had had another success with Novello in the marvelous silent Downhill. Unfortunately, because of Novello’s popularity, the Lodger story was changed, making Novello merely a suspect in the Ripper case, rather than the actual killer himself. This worked well for Hitchcock’s purposes, as he was a master at creating suspense out of ordinary daily experiences. But the story lacked some punch. Today it is best known for its striking cinematography and Novello’s riveting performance.

In 1932, Novello remade The Lodger, also starring himself. But this time he made it as a talkie. It is similar to the Hitchcock version, but lacks the ingenuity and mise-en-scene that Hitchcock first gave it. Still, it is worth watching since it is one of the few films in which we can hear Novello actually talk. And even without Hitchcock, it holds one’s attention.

A decade later, The Lodger was taken up by director John Brahm, and writer Barre Lyndon, and given the Hollywood treatment. For me this is the most satisfying version for the reasons already given. Laird Cregar’s creepy performance in the Ivor Novello role. George Sander’s unctuously couth inspector. And where else can one see Merle Oberon dance a can-can?! But most of all it is the brilliant direction of John Brahm, who was known for the early horror film The Undying Monster. The lighting in this version is absolutely breathtaking. When one of the victims is getting ready to go to bed in her squalid flat, she suddenly realizes there is a man in her room. The camera pushes her back against the wall and she covers her face with her hands, letting out a bloodcurdling scream. It is one of the most horrifying scenes ever caught on celluloid, similar in tone to some of the best work by James Whale.

Later, towards the end of the film, there’s a memorable scene in which Cregar is crawling along a catwalk above the stage where Merle Oberon is performing. The light thrust up between the rungs of the crosswalk illuminates Cregar’s face in a pattern of quickly moving bars, eerily reminiscent of the light cast by a silent movie projector. Is this a subtle homage to Hitchcock? Or just a brilliant device? Moments later, when Cregar is backed up against a wall, his face is framed in a painfully harsh light that reveals the tormented monster he truly is.

Brahm and Cregar went on to capitalize on the box office success of The Lodger by crafting a sequel of sorts: Hangover Square.

While not about Jack the Ripper, it tells the story of a psychopathic composer who kills uncontrollably when he suffers spells caused by shrill sounds. It’s a real hoot. And while it doesn’t quite rise to the level of The Lodger, it has some devastating moments. Cregar lost over a hundred pounds prior to taking the role. And boy does it show. He is surprisingly handsome here and the loss of extra weight seems to have freed him to act in new directions. Alas, it was because of his rapid weight loss that Cregar died shortly after making the film.

Why producers felt it necessary to remake The Lodger again in 1953 is beyond me. And why cast Jack Palance as the Ripper? He is so obviously creepy that it undermines the suspense. But this film version, called The Man in the Attic, is worth watching as a counterpoint to the other versions.

Using the same script as the Cregar version, it is almost identical in some shots. I even wondered if they had used some of the footage from the earlier film. There’s one scene where a Bobby is looking for the killer on a rooftop and is attacked by pigeons that is identical to the previous one. Even the costumes seem to have come from the same distributor. But there are very important differences. The showgirl here, played by the very beautiful Constance Smith, sings with a dubbed-in saccharine 50s voice that sounds so canned that it almost smells of sardines. And there’s a bit more flesh. It hardly seems possible that in Victorian England, an actress would strip down to her birthday suit to take a bath on stage.

One of the odder changes is that Smith’s dresser at the theatre is a woman from India. Was this some underhanded reference to Merle Oberon (seen above in one of her “exotic” moods) who starred in the previous version? Oberon’s Indian heritage was a well-known Hollywood “secret.” And as revealed in the biographical novel Queenie by Michael Korda, based on Oberon’s life, her mother posed as her servant. Perhaps if the film were better, one’s mind wouldn’t wander off on such tangents!

The most appalling change is that here, instead of being madly in love with his “brother,” the Jack Palance character shows us a small painting of his mother, an actress who became a streetwalker in Whitechapel when she fell on hard times. The detective informs us that the Ripper’s first victim was this woman, his mother. This is an absurd twist, and a vain attempt to explain his behavior. And worse, it’s a far cry from the odd homosexual psycho-drama that plagued Cregar in his much better version.

In the Jack Palance version, Edward, the Prince of Wales, comes to hear the showgirl perform. This is an ironic touch since years later books would be written claiming that it was Edward’s son, Prince Albert, aka “Eddy” who was actually Jack the Ripper.

And news flash: according to IMDB, the international movie database, apparently there is going to be a fifth version of The Lodger. A new film is in production, directed by David Ondaatje. According to IMDB, it is going to be set in Los Angeles. It will be interesting to see what new twists they will bring to this timeless tale.

So my advice to anyone who cares is that the next time you take a room at a hotel on a business trip or vacation, bring along a copy of The Lodger — and any of its four film versions — and curl up in your bed while enjoying it. But make sure to leave the light on.

Apropos Dick Dubois, the subject of my previous, surprisingly popular, post, I received an email from Ken Furtado who is writing a book about George Quaintance, the famed 50s physique artist. According to Ken, Dick Dubois was Quaintance’s last model before the artist’s untimely death. Dick was posing for a painting entitled “Odin Welcoming the Slain Heroes into Valhalla,” which graced the cover of Physique Pictorial in Fall 1958. (below).

Gazing at the image, one can easily recognize Dick’s bulging physique in Odin, and the hint of a sly smile. The helmet throws one off a bit because it covers up Dick’s signature bouffant hair-do. I have no idea who modeled for the two “slain heroes.” The one on the left seems to have lost his loincloth in battle. One can only imagine what this must have looked like full-size and in color. Here are some other Physique Pictorial images he did, as well as a few samplings of other paintings which show the range of his high camp style. You can get a full-run of all the Physique Pictorial issues in a three-volume set published by Taschen.

And a page that shows George Quaintance at work.

Below is a painting of Steve Reeves by Quaintance in which the future Hercules is done-up as Vulcan with his thunderbolts. I own a large “glicee” print of this that I bought from Dan Lurie, the bodybuilder, who knew Steve Reeves well.

Furtado’s email reminded me however of how much I love and admire the work of George Quaintance. I can’t explain why this amazing artist isn’t better known! His kitsch work for Physique Pictorial alone should guarantee him a place in the pantheon of Homeros.

And an email from my friend Reed Massengill further reminded me that I had taken some snapshots of work that Quaintance had done in his hometown near Stanley in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia. Before making his mark in New York and California, Quaintance honed his craft by painting murals, paintings, and occasionally even decorating furniture for family and friends. One of his most remarkable pieces is a mural he did for a church showing John the Baptist anointing Christ and his acolytes. Here are a few of the pictures I took several years ago when I toured the church with John Waybright, a friend of Quaintance’s family and co-author with Ken Furtado of the book on him. You can learn more about their project by visiting their website: Quaintance

Below is a snapshot I took of the mural showing Christ being anointed by John the Baptist:

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And a detail of his face and halo.

And a closer look at one of the supplicants reveals that George Quaintance may have used himself as the model.

And another shot showing some more details of the witnesses. Quaintance was just beginning his career when he painted these figures. But you can already see his flair for composition and his eye for beautiful models.

It’s a stunning mural and even more surprising considering its location in a church and the fact that it was painted sometime in the 30s. The fact that it has stayed there, in pretty good condition, all these years is a testament to the high regard his fellow Virginians have for the inimitable and unforgettable George Quaintance.

One of the great and unsung heroes of bodybuilding was Richard Dubois (pictured above). I was planning on writing a tribute to him a while back but because of various distractions never got around to it. Now I have learned that this vintage Adonis has died. According to an obituary put out by Associated Press, he died on September 26, 2007. He was 74 years old.

I first learned of Dick Dubois back in the 90s when I began to collect physique photography and ephemera on eBay. What intrigued me about Dick were his winning ways and easy virility. He had extraordinarily smooth, hairless skin and wonderful muscle tone. On top of his head he had a voluminous pompadour that typified the age he lived in, and yet he exuded a timeless classical allure. He also did not seem embarrassed or stiff in front of the camera. He had loads of charm and a devastating smile.

But at other times he seemed churlish and a bit off, as if the demands of his career of posing and modeling were taking their toll. You never knew from one magazine to the next which Dick Dubois you were going to find. The adorable Adonis or the surly stevedore.

He did not fit the mold of other bodybuilders from his era. While he had a massive build and enormous arms, he paid little attention to his legs, although they were quite muscular nonetheless. At 6′ 2″, 215 lbs and with a 52-inch chest, he was a formidable sight. He was not as “cut” as his pal Steve Reeves who went on to greater glory as Hercules. He never quite achieved the fame of his other contemporaries: Alan Stephan, John Grimek, Larry Scott and Reg Park. And yet he won two of bodybuilding’s most coveted trophies: the Mr. America and Mr. U.S.A competitions.

His reign was not without its detractors. Some felt that the producers railroaded him through. Others felt he was not quite ready for the crown. The attitude was summed up by one magazine which covered him, Muscle Sculpture. In 1957, they dubbed him “Unpredictable Dick Dubois, Muscledom’s Big Enigma.” They claimed he could be as “gracious as a maitre d’, or as rough as a dock worker… as happy as a lark or sunk in the mire of despondency.” Some said he was “the greatest” while others felt “he was not fit to wear the Mr. America and Mr. USA crowns. A more controversial bodybuilding figure has never been known.” (Click on the images below to open them up in separate windows for easy viewing.)

Despite his reputation or because of it, Dick Dubois’s stunning musculature and dazzling smile were splashed across the pages of dozens of magazines at the height of the bodybuilding craze. From 1954 when he appeared on the cover of Tomorrow’s Man shot by Bruce of Los Angeles to 1962 when he graced the cover of Muscle Builder with Betsy Brosmer, Dick was ubiquitous.

As I studied up on Dick, I learned that he had been born in Brooklyn in 1933, and had very humble roots. One magazine claimed he was an orphan, and worked in a factory to make ends meet. Another claimed his parents had moved him to Poughkeepsie where he soon became active in the bodybuilding scene. As I lived near Poughkeepsie at the time of my initial research, it was easy for me to find some old workout buddies of Dick’s who remembered him fondly. It was from one of these pals that I discovered that Dick pronounced his last name “Dubose” rather than “du Bois” in the French fashion. This amazed me as I had always assumed he had made the name up. “Dick of Wood’ was too delicious a stage name for a physique model. But it was the real deal. Later when Dick began to market himself as an actor and hoped to make films, he changed his name briefly to Richard Sabre. I suppose there was already a Dick Dubois in SAG or perhaps his handlers felt the French moniker was too hard to pronounce. He didn’t stick with Sabre too long however.

In 1954, Dick made his film debut in Athena, a movie about the health craze then taking hold in California. It starred Debbie Reynolds and Jane Powell, as well as a horde of bodybuilder extras including Dick’s friend Steve Reeves. It’s a camp classic as only MGM could turn out in those days.

Soon afterwards, Dick landed in the arms of the entertainer Mae West, who was launching a sexy new revue featuring several young male bodybuilders. It was her twist on the girly skin shows of the past, only here the pulchritude was all-male: beefcake a go-go!

She fell for his bulging biceps and animal sex appeal and promoted him to the lead. The two soon became an item. One has only to look at the publicity stills issued for the show to see how smitten West really was with him.

But Dick Dubois was disenchanted with Hollywood and the sleaziness of show business. He was something of a maverick and a visionary. By the 60s, he had found a new calling: religion. He became an evangelist and turned his well-developed back on the worlds of physique posing and bodybuilding, although as you can see from his flyer for the Good Shepherd Church from 1960 below, announcing that “Christ is the answer,” he was not averse to using his former fame to attract followers. For the next four decades he devoted himself to his religious calling with passion and zeal. The last 19 years he was a pastor at the Gospel Lighthouse in West Los Angeles. He is survived by his wife and family.

What fascinates me about Dick Dubois is that he epitomized the mania for masculine beauty in a more innocent time. Back in the 50s, before steroids, bodybuilding still represented the high ideals of self-improvement and good health. A good-looking young hunk like Dick was an icon of virtue and a role-model of what any kid could hope to become with training, perseverance and an open mind. What really transpired in the sordid backgrounds of that glitzy world of bodybuilding and the casting couches of Tinseltown we may never know. And perhaps that is why Dick Dubois ultimately gave it the cold shoulder. But what a magnificent shoulder it was!

Today the highly-stylized physique photographs he appeared in are like vestiges of a more naive age, the post-WW2 equivalent of those risque sepia postcards of French demimondaines that were all the rage during the First World War. Back in the day when Communism was America’s biggest threat, hula hoops were the latest fad and the nuclear bomb was just seconds away from exploding, Dick Dubois represented a bright future.

He was the beau ideal of American virility. The boy next door who could conquer the world with his drop-dead good looks and manly grace. He was the quintessential “man’s man.” The fact he found his true nature in saving souls rather than exploiting his body is a remarkable morality tale. And who can argue with his choice? Our loss may have been his gain. Whatever his legacy — adorable Adonis or surly stevedore — he will not be soon forgotten.

DICK DUBOIS UPDATE

After posting this homage to Dubois, my friend Reed Massengill, who is a noted photographer, himself, sent me a few more great shots of Dick Dubois for the archive, including this rare head shot. See below.

On my way back from Natchez, I stopped over in Montgomery, Alabama. As the birthplace of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, it is not surprising that the city has named a street in her honor (see below) right next to one named for her illustrious husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald. The absence of last names is amusing.

Unfortunately the house in which Zelda grew up is no longer there, but the city does have a small museum honoring the couple. Located on Felder Avenue, it is an unprepossessing residence in a rather humdrum part of town.  The house today is divided into apartments; the museum is on the ground floor.

The museum contains a few paintings by Zelda, most of the books the two of them wrote, and a video player that offers a 20-minute documentary. The rooms evoke the period but it could use a few more original pieces. Perhaps this is not surprising since the Fitzgeralds only lived there about six months. What is most surprising is that this is the only museum dedicated to F. Scott Fitzgerald anywhere in the world. Surely Princeton or St. Paul, Minnesota could come up with something more substantial.

Still it is worth stopping by if you are already in the neighborhood. Despite its shortcomings, the museum still manages to evoke the personality of its famous residents and remains a testament to the triumphs and tragedies of this ill-fated pair of romantic egoists. 

Each day in this town brings more surprises. Every street corner contains an unusual structure. There are parks and gardens, curious enclaves, broken-down alleyways, antiquated saloons and even an upscale salon where I got my hair cut. I went back to Stanton Hall (seen above) and took some more pictures. Every angle of this landmark provides a different and equally compelling point of view.

Even when you get up closer, it looks completely different. I think the same could be said of the town itself. I’ve been exploring it mostly on foot. And even though it is laid out in a simple grid pattern, I keep finding myself getting lost. This is due in part to there being so many side-streets between the main boulevards. I find that I can’t resist strolling down them. Sometimes you come out of one of these back ways and end up nearly stepping into a private garden.

This one above is a few doors down from The 1888 Wensel House Bed & Breakfast (below) which is run by my friends Ron and Mimi Miller. I went there for breakfast a few days ago. Not only is the house exquisitely furnished with fine antiques and elegant paintings, but the food is delicious and plentiful: rashers of bacon, grits and pancakes, sausage and scrambled eggs, biscuits and fresh fruit salad. Ron and Mimi are consummate hosts, entertaining their guests with snatches gleaned from the lengthy history of Natchez.

Across the street is a stylish little stucco house painted a rich terra cotta red. It reminds me very much of my own house in Athens, NY in terms of size and shape. I only wish I didn’t have vinyl siding on mine. So far I haven’t seen any vinyl siding in downtown Natchez.

In other subtle ways Natchez reminds me of Athens which is also a river town. The Mississippi is certainly grander and wider than the Hudson is around Athens, but the sense of ebb and flow of river traffic and the historic lifestyle along the river is very much the same. Natchez is certainly cleaner, and much better preserved. I was told that this is due in part to the immense success of Gone with the Wind in the 30s. Residents went to a great deal of trouble to restore and maintain their properties here both in response to and as a result of the rage for antebellum architecture following the premiere of the film. But with stately churches, such as the First Presbyterian, below, it’s no wonder that the Natchez’s citizens make a point of keeping it well-maintained.

So far the weather here, for March, has been spectacular. I feel very lucky not to be ensconced in upstate New York right now as I know it is cold and wet there. We’ve had nothing but clear blue skies and temperatures in the 60s and 70s here, except for Monday when we had severe thunderstorms, followed by a cold spell. Liberating it is to be able to doff my winter coat and walk to the gym I just joined in my work-out clothes. I’m trying to work off the calories I’ve incurred by snacking at places like this aptly named bistro below:

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The downtown area is surprisingly quiet in the daytime. And I must confess that I haven’t ventured out at night. This gives the area a serenity I’ve not encountered in any city but it also gives it a slightly Twilight Zone atmosphere, as if it were a set or a make-believe village, like the story Rod Serling told of a person trapped inside a toy belonging to a giant child.

All in all, I’ve only just begun to scratch the surface. There’s too much to take in, too many ways to go. For now, I’m content to simply soak in the details.

My main goal, of course, is to simply vanish into the landscape and get some serious work done. So most of the time I’m in my hideaway working. I can’t think of a better way to spend a vacation.

After traveling from New York via stop-overs in Virginia, Georgia, and Florida, I finally rolled into my final destination, Natchez on the Mississippi River, on Friday night. From the moment I turned into St. Catherine Street, I knew I had arrived. Every corner of this small city exudes a Southern grace and charm. I’ll be writing much more about my impressions of Natchez as the month progresses. I’ve rented a small apartment here in an old carriage house. It’s completely ideal for my purposes despite (or because of) its faintly “honeymoon cottage” ambiance. But for now I am just posting a few snapshots so I don’t have to inundate my friends with laborious emails and downloads. So if you are interested, please check in later to find out more about what makes Natchez one of the finest rivertowns in America.

Stanton Hall (above).

Wilkins Town House Bed and Breakfast on side street. Typical of the charm of the historic downtown district. It used to be the Chamber of Commerce many years ago.

I’m not sure exactly what this building is, but it appears to be a club or private association of some kind. It reminds me of some of the fancier Flagler buildings in Palm Beach.

Above is the rear-view of Choctaw, one of the larger B&B’s. Front facade below.

The grandeur of these homes is astonishing considering that right behind it is an abandoned old warehouse with wonderful vintage advertising signs.

Click on the images above to see them full-size. As you can see, I got a little carried away snapping pictures of it. Maybe it’s because the Natchez Coffee House was closed.

The cafe is on Franklin Street where there are several arcades filled with high-end and low-end antique shops and galleries. I’m not sure which “end” these outdoor statues belong on.

Every block is full of surprises. Below is an art deco movie theatre that could just as easily be in Miami Beach.

There is much more to show you. So stay tuned. No doubt I’ll succumb to the thrill of taking one of the horse-and-buggy ride tours, and I’ll be sure to fill you in on all the old wives’ tales about ghosts and goblins in the antebellum mansions.

It’s a magical little city that takes time to fully savor.

Last night I watched in dismay as the Academy Awards show dissed Brad Renfro by not including him in the annual round-up of members who had died during the past year. This is a shocking oversight and must have been deliberate. The newspaper column Page Six noticed it too. So in my own tiny way I am hoping to make up a bit for this slap in his face by reposting my homage to him after his sad and untimely death.

Resquiat in Pace:

Brad Renfro: (1982-2008)

Untimely Death of a Once Rising Star

I am not one of those bloggers who likes to comment every time a famous person dies. I’ll leave that to the obit junkies. But I can not let the passing of Brad Renfro go without some comment. This young actor took the world by storm in his debut film The Client, starring opposite Susan Sarandon. She may have been the veteran superstar in that flick, but Brad stole the picture. His natural ease in front of the camera, his cocky belligerence, his good looks and worldliness at such a young age were fascinating. He went on to distinguish himself in other difficult roles, most notably in Bully and Sleepers.

Just last night I was watching a documentary about Alfred Hitchcock and they showed a scene from Vertigo in which Jimmy Stewart is berating Kim Novak after he finds out she’s been deceiving him. He yells at her “You were a very apt pupil.” That must be the source of the title of the film Apt Pupil starring Brad Renfro as a youth drawn to the dark side when he uncovers an ex-Nazi living in his midst (played brilliantly by Sir Ian McKellen). Brad’s ability to walk a fine line between brash innocence and outright evil was mesmerizing and awe-inspiring.

One couldn’t be a fan of Brad’s without knowing full well about his drug addiction and battles with the law. Apparently even as a ten year old when he auditioned for The Client he was known to be troubled. One can hardly blame show business for turning him into an addict, but I wonder if the powers that be didn’t try hard enough to help him when he was obviously suffering and in decline. We live in a society (if that is what you can call it) in which we often seem to savor destroying our young idols. Think of the tragedy of Britney Spears and the way the media laps up her every misstep.

Brad was as talented an actor as James Dean or River Phoenix, both of whom died too early. Poor Brad was only 25 years old.

Last month when I was discussing the death of Theodora Keogh, another Presidential relative stole the spotlight: Margaret Truman, who died January 29th. Yesterday while packing some items for a trip I am taking to Natchez, I came across a box with some old magazines in it. One was from December 29, 1951: Collier’s. The cover immediately caught my eye. Pictured on the front in near caricature was Margaret Truman with Princess Margaret for a feature by none other than Elsa Maxwell, the celebrated party-giver and Cafe Society hostess.

It is an odd article on many levels. First of all, I can’t think of two people least alike than the maverick British princess of Buckingham Palace and the shy American siren from Independence, Missouri. Margaret of the Old World adored the limelight and never missed a party. Margaret of the New World preferred her privacy (despite wanting to sing professionally) and ended up writing best-selling mysteries set in and around the White House. Inevitably, in depicting the two, Elsa Maxwell felt the need to walk a very fine line — a veritable tightrope — not to offend either party. Considering her out-sized personality this was a difficult task. I am not going to reprint the whole article but here are a few short samplings:

The Two Margarets I Know by Elsa Maxwell

There is a story that when Margaret Truman was in England last summer, she attended a party with Princess Margaret, younger daughter of the king and queen. [Blog note: this was before Elizabeth took the throne]. When someone asked Miss Truman to sing, she demurred, saying that she was on vacation and, besides, her accompanist wasn’t with her. Whereupon Princess Margaret offered to play the piano for her. The princess started off on a group of American popular songs, none of which Miss Truman knew, and the impasse continued until somebody in the audience said, “Your Royal Highness, Miss Truman is a concert singer.”

“Oh,” said the princess in a small voice and stopped playing. After a moment’s hesitation, she left the piano.

Whether or not this actually happened, it illustrates in a small degree both the likeness and the difference between the two Margarets, daughters of the heads of the English-speaking nations. They share many traits in common, among them the fact that in their youth neither imagined they would occupy the public eye. And the difference between them is, in many ways, the result of the differences between the traditions of the two countries. But the comparison goes deeper than these surface, or accidental characteristics. They both adore their parents, but they are both determined to live their own lives.

…Princess Margaret’s rebellion against protocol is by no means complete, and it will probably be less and less complete as time goes by. However, she has the ability to brighten up any formal gathering and to spread charm and gaiety wherever she goes. There was one instance of this, when she was at a party for which a professional pianist had been engaged — a pianist who somehow missed the spirit of the affair and was turning the evening into a dismal bore. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, the princess rose, went to the piano and said, “Do you mind?” When the pianist got up, she sat down and began to play a number of popular songs. People got up and danced, and in very short order the party had changed from a soporific musicale into a bang-up evening.

…I first met Margaret Truman about 10 years ago, when her father was a senator, and I liked her very much. There was no inkling then, however, of the development that has taken place in her in the last three or four years — the development of talent and poise and charm that has made her universally liked and admired wherever she goes. Her blonde hair, which used to be too long, has been cut shorter, in a chic, neat arrangement that brings out the best features of her face. She has blue-green eyes, sparkling with a lively, intelligent expression, and her good looks are accentuated by a light, creamy complexion. She is of medium height — perhaps five feet three or four — and has fine sensitive hands. She is, at the age of 27, a very attractive young woman.

[Caption: “At Paris party the author attended, Gen. Ike joined lustily in community sing. Miss T., vacationing from concert stage, just hummed.”]

…Shortly after her first concert, which I attended, I was on a CBS television show called Who Said That? and in the course of the show I was asked how I had liked Margaret’s singing. I replied, in effect, that I didn’t think she was ready for a concert career, much as it pained me to say it.

I later found out that, although some people had been highly displeased with my remarks, both she and her mother — who is, incidentally, a fine and a charming woman — had defended my right to say what I felt. I think that at the time she did misunderstand me, though, because when Helen Sioussat asked her to a luncheon that included Gracie Allen, Mrs. Warren Austin and me, Margaret replied, “I’d love to come, but I don’t think that Miss Maxwell likes me.” Helen assured her that this was not the case, so she came to the luncheon. I hope now that she knows how wrong she was in her assumption. I also hope that someday I shall be able to say that she is a truly great singer. She is certainly everything else.

One can only imagine what Margaret Truman thought of Elsa Maxwell’s singing! I have her self-titled album of songs she wrote which never ceases to amaze and amuse me for its sheer, gasping audacity.

[UPDATE: I wrote this entry before the eBay boycott took effect, but since then I’ve seen a substantial impact from the strike. According to Power Sellers Unite, ebay’s listings are down nearly 13%. So I doubt if the powers that be at eBay can simply shrug it off as a bunch of whiners, which is how they characterized the boycott in the first place.]

Something fundamental and substantial has changed at the once innovative web powerhouse known as eBay. Recently I celebrated my fifth anniversary as an ebay seller, under the user name BrooksBooksEtc. I’ve actually been dealing on eBay for ten years both as a buyer and a seller. I was proud of the fact that I had done well on eBay as a bookseller all these years despite all the obstacles an antiquarian book dealer faces. But lately I’ve become increasingly frustrated with the way that eBay is managed.

The big news last month was that Meg Whitman, after ten years as head of the company, was stepping down. She couldn’t have timed her exit better. As profits have fallen at the web giant, and traffic has slowed, she’s decided to jump ship before it sinks — or perhaps, to be fair, takes in more water. Shortly after her announcement, it was revealed that eBay is raising its auction fees by a substantial amount, an additional 3.5% of the final closing value fee, which amounts to approximately a 67% increase. The company attempted to mask this enormous and unprecedented jack in fees by announcing that listing fees were being slashed. Well, the truth is that they are dropping the listing fees by about five cents which does little to compensate for the excessive rise in closing fees. The president of eBay’s North American operations, Bill Cobb, announced that he was also stepping down. One has to wonder with all these executive departures, just how bad the situation at eBay really is!

But the real bugaboo at eBay is the new policy that sellers can no longer give negative feedback to their buyers. They can only leave positive feedback, or no feedback at all. This is an outrageous change in policy and one that has scores of eBay dealers up in arms. The various discussion forums within eBay are filled daily now with furious comments by powersellers, longtime vendors and veteran eBay fans who are questioning the legitimacy of such a new policy and also their pent-up frustrations with eBay’s changing attitude towards its sellers. A boycott has been called for between February 18th-25th. It will be interesting to see how many old-time eBay sellers join in. And if the buyers also respond. [NOTE: As of Feb 22nd, ebay’s listings are down 13%, proof positive that the boycott is having a substantial impact!]

The truth is that feedback is a vital element of what makes eBay work. If a seller no longer has the right to leave negative or neutral feedback for a buyer who deliberately and falsely leaves him negative feedback there is absolutely no deterrent for a buyer to do so. Sometimes I’ve had buyers who threatened to leave negative feedback because they felt the delivery time was too slow (even though, as I explained to them, they had opted for media mail delivery which I had told them was much slower than regular Priority mail.) The fact that I could leave equally negative feedback was a check and balance that kept this particular person from misusing the eBay feedback system. Likewise, when a customer wants to return a book, for whatever reason (I even had one fellow return a book because I had described it as “interesting” and he had found it “dull”) it is imperative that the seller retain the right to leave negative feedback should the customer not return the book but still leave bad feedback. Most sellers do a fantastic job of dealing with customers. Yes, there are a few bad sellers out there. But the old feedback system was a great way to keep them in check. Now without the fairness built in, a lot of sellers are threatening to boycott eBay entirely. This is not simply a few diehards out there. The community boards have been filled with people planning a civil demonstration showing unity and displeasure with the management’s recent decisions. (If you don’t believe me, check out this story on CNNMoney: Click Here.)

There was a time, when eBay first made its mark on the internet, when the owners of the company treated sellers with the same respect they gave to buyers. Indeed, most buyers were also sellers and vice-versa. As eBay’s fame grew and the site was visited by millions of customers a day, there was a gradual change in how the company dealt with its sellers. It seemed that the owners were favoring the buyers, making it harder and harder for dealers to treat eBay as a fun way to make a few dollars. Instead, what happened is that the company kept raising listing fees and final value fees (these are the charges the company adds as a commission at the time of sale.) While eBay’s final value fees are still much less than what standard auction houses charge (which varies between 10 and 15%), eBay is not a bricks and mortar kind of operation and shouldn’t have to charge as much. Other subtle changes over the years, include how eBay created a Power Seller category of dealers. The idea behind this was that sellers who make over $1000 a month in sales (not necessarily profits) have different needs than general sellers and therefore should have access to full-time customer service (always a problem where eBay is concerned as they were slow to create a customer service staff), as well as direct phone lines and various discounts. (below is a photo of my inventory. I had to stock scads of stuff just to keep up with eBay’s demands.)

All of this must have looked good on paper but what it did, in my opinion, was to force sellers who perhaps didn’t want to make that much each month strive to reach selling levels that were beyond their means in order to have any customer service at all. (Have you ever tried calling eBay on your own, if you were not a Power Seller? I did years back. All I got was a computer voice messaging system that led nowhere. It wasn’t until I left a message requesting that the legal department call me back that I got any response at all.)

Also over time, eBay’s managers began to hike fees and created new listing gimmicks that basically forced one to use them (otherwise one’s auctions were harder to find). For instance, if one does not use the Gallery option (which posts a photo of the item you are selling in a small window) all that shows up on the listing page delineating all the auctions in that specific category is a blank window. It is easy for buyers to overlook such a listing. But by paying 35 cents one could have a copy of the image one had already uploaded highlighted in order to steer traffic one’s way. This sounds harmless enough. But imagine listing ten items a day for seven days a week each month. That is $3.50 a day that could be spent paying for more listings rather than just pictures. Now with the new fee policy the Gallery option is going to be free. But frankly it is too little too late as the gratuitous system has already driven countless sellers to other sites where they don’t charge for images.

Personally I wonder if it isn’t eBay’s catastrophic purchase of Skype a few years back that is the cause of this backlash against sellers. The company wrote off $1.4 billion to cover its losses. That’s a lot of beanie babies! It’s as if the small eBay sellers are being asked to shoulder the burden of paying for that disastrous and ill-advised mistake. Why didn’t they ask the sellers what they thought of that stupid deal? Anyone could have told them that eBay had no business being in the telecommunications business.

I think the real issue with eBay is that ever since they went public they have tended to focus more on the owners of the company rather than on the people who use it. I used to joke with friends that I made more money in one day by buying and selling eBay stock than I did in a year of listing items on it. I was only half-kidding. The truth is that it became increasingly difficult to generate any profits on eBay since the fees kept going up year after year.

Plus when eBay bought PayPal, the online payment service, they started charging a commission on all sales processed through PayPal. So eBay is profiting at the moment the item is listed, the moment it is sold, and again at the moment it is paid for. Most casual observers of eBay’s business model don’t realize what a challenge this is for small sellers to win at the eBay game.

As a Power Seller one is required to reach a certain level of sales per month. Therefore one is forced to list day after day in order to attain those goals just to get the quality service one needs to run one’s business efficiently. When you are selling cars and jewelry and tube socks that is not so difficult — and as the company grew it became obvious that the owners preferred that people sell big-ticket items rather than the small collectibles that had once been its bread and butter. But if you are a book seller or an antiques dealer or a specialist in vintage photography, it is nigh impossible sometimes to generate that amount in sales since the items are often less than $10 a piece and the competition is fierce. I only know a handful of sellers who deal in these type of items who make over $50,000 a year which is what one has to make in order to buy the inventory one needs to generate that level of sales and to also make a profit after taxes, overhead and eBay’s whopping fees. I am not exaggerating when I say that sometimes it seemed that my monthly eBay fees were higher than my monthly profits. It became a game of chance some months to make any money at all.

So why did I stick with eBay all these years? Well, the obvious reason is that I enjoy it. I love the fact that I can find an item, list it, and connect with like-minded collectors from across the globe. I also like the extra income one can make while working for oneself. But the main reason is a little less gratifying. The truth is that eBay is basically the only game in town. Other sites such as Amazon, Yahoo and upstart auction sites don’t generate the kind of traffic eBay does and their systems are not quite as user-friendly. Nor do they create the kind of excitement that draws customers to eBay. (I take that back. I just was introduced to a new website that features all the different auction options: Power Sellers Unite.)

But despite these new options, you won’t find anyone listing a piece of toast with the face of the Virgin Mary on it on some esoteric auction site. It’s the big bad wolf called eBay that calls the shots. But it’s important for the folks who run eBay to remember that it’s the little people who made eBay the juggernaut it is today. And their fat paychecks wouldn’t exist without the hard work of all of us who helped put it on the map.

Just wanted to offer a quick update on the late great Theodora Keogh. I got more hits for my tribute to her [see January 29th entry below] than I have gotten for any other piece I’ve ever posted to my blog. Not even Paulette Goddard drew as many visitors. Something about this elusive and eccentric figure touched a nerve. My brother, who designed my blog, suggested I find another “obscure dead person” to write about. But the whole point of my fascination with Theodora Keogh was that she was still alive and I wanted to know more about her. The fact that someone who had been so famous could simply vanish off the literary landscape, and disappear even from her family and friends was intriguing. In the words of one of the characters in the hilarious, but awfully good, film Eddie and the Cruisers, she “pulled a Rimbaud.”

(detail of a photo, above, courtesy of Dave Kiersh).

Since her death, there have been numerous mentions of her on various blogs, thanks in the most part to The Telegraph’s timely and very entertaining obituary. I received enthusiastic emails from authors Hugo Vickers, Charles Ardai, Richard Hutto, and Glen David Gold, as well as the playwright and biographer Joan Schenkar, whose book on Oscar Wilde’s niece Dolly is a must-read. Pamela Keogh, author of stylish books on Jackie Kennedy and Elvis Presley, wrote to tell me that she might be related to Tom. A relative of Theodora’s last husband expressed appreciation for my tribute to Theodora, but indicated there was a lot more to her story than has been reported. Perhaps the most unexpected note came from Randy Jones, the original cowboy in the Village People. A “tar-heel,” he was well aware of Theodora Keogh and considers himself one of her biggest fans. He “added” me as a friend at MySpace (see link at right). Since Theodora married a seasoned tugboat captain after Tom Keogh, I imagine she would have enjoyed Randy’s rendition of “In The Navy.”

Several blogs have been kind enough to include links to my own entry about her. This includes Galley Cat, Maud Newton, David Patrick Columbia’s popular New York Social Diary, Mark Athitakis’s American Fiction Notes, Sunday Hangover, and something called 1904 by George Snyder. Internet whiz and author Robert Nedelkoff, too, has kept me abreast of as many other mentions as he can find. He also turned me on to a somewhat controversial book: Milking the Moon by Eugene Walter as told to Katherine Clark. There’s a charming photo of Theodora in it, taken in Paris, when he knew her. The Chelsea Hotel blog also posted a spirited entry about Theodora and her alleged days at the fabled hotel. Cat lovers of all stripes debated whether she owned a margay or an ocelot. In the end, the margay triumphed. (see link here: Chelsea Hotel.)

Judy Laddon sent me a link to a website featuring Sally Pierone’s new book which details tidbits about Theodora’s Paris days in the 50s. Sally, who was art director for the Marshall Plan, was known as Sally Paine then and Keogh’s novel The Fascinator is dedicated to her. (Sally’s book shown below). Here’s a link to her blog which includes a marvelous photo of Theodora and her husband Tom in bathing suits. His is a bit skimpy, but he filled it out rather well. (Click here: Sally.)

Yet, despite all the brouhaha over her, there still has been no obituary in The New York Times! I find this incredible and frankly appalling. It seems that all it takes nowadays is to have been arrested once for tax evasion or to spend more than 30 days in a rehab to get an obituary in The Times, but if you are the granddaughter of Teddy Roosevelt, a popular author of nine innovative novels, and the former wife of a well-known artist and costume designer, not to mention a figure of mystery and romance (who can forget the story of the overly affectionate margay that nibbled too long at her ear), then you don’t qualify for an obituary. And The Times wonders why its circulation keeps dropping?

Ironically there is a film on TCM today called Theodora Goes Wild starring Irene Dunne. I saw this movie, made in 1936, years ago and wondered then at the similarity between its storyline and the life of Theodora Keogh.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

“When the Lynnfield Bugle , a small Connecticut newspaper, runs a serial of Caroline Adams’ risqué novel, The Sinner , editor Jed Waterbury receives many complaints from the puritannical townspeople. Among the outraged readers are leading citizens, Mary and Elsie Lynn, whose niece Theodora is the secret author of the scandalous novel. The literary circle, led by Mary, Elsie and straight-laced Rebecca Perry, force Jed to stop printing The Sinner . Soon after, under the pretext of visiting her Uncle John, the family’s fun-loving black sheep, Theodora goes to New York to see her publisher, Arthur Stevenson. Stevenson is thrilled to be handling Theodora’s best seller, but is frustrated by her refusal to participate in any publicity. Theodora, a Sunday school teacher and church organist, explains that although she wrote the novel as a mental escape from her stuffy existence, she would never dream of disgracing the family name by revealing that she is Caroline Adams. Theodora meets Stevenson’s wife Ethel and also Michael Grant, the sophisticated artist who designed her book’s cover.”

Since Theodora’s husband, Tom Keogh, himself a “sophisticated artist,” designed her own book covers, the similarities are absolutely uncanny, although she didn’t marry Keogh until 1945. One has to wonder what Theodora Keogh made of it all. It’s a great flick and if you have a chance, be sure to check it out.