I went to a screening of a somewhat obscure Italian movie from 1965 at the American Cinematheque the other night.  The original title was Vaghe Stelle Dell’Orsa… (translation: Under the Stars of Ursa Major…), which somehow translated as Sandra for English-speaking audiences.  An alternate English title from its initial release was the completely inappropriate Sandra of a Thousand Delights, which makes this grim meditation on love, death and familial decay sound like a saucy comedic romp through Tuscany, so I guess we got off easy.

Claudia Cardinale, the star of the film and a living legend in world cinema since the sixties, was scheduled to appear and take questions afterward.

There was some kind of Cinematheque ‘members only’ (note: at the time, not me) reception / mixer an hour before showtime in a roped-off part of the theater’s courtyard.  I don’t know if Cardinale was supposed to attend that, but if she was, she missed it.

When her limousine did arrive, she was immediately besieged by press, autograph hounds, and preposterously dressed Italian expatriates eager to be acknowledged by the great lady in red.  The swelling entourage moved right past me as I sat against a palm tree holding a cardboard Big Mac container from the McDonald’s down the block.  Nearby, Cinematheque members craned their necks for a look, literally roped in, trapped in their private reception just a few yards away.

The movie was good, but since the event was co-sponsored by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association (I think in conjunction with some other organization of wealthy glad-handers), it was cineaste douchebags to the right of me and Eurotrash douchebags to the left - putting my date and I at quite an intersection; you might recognize it as the corner of Impossibly Pathetic and Incredibly Annoying.

Fate tossed a coin and my date and I lost; we ended up seated in front of high-maintenance Eurotrash, freeloading friends of people on the boards of the organizing organizations who, as the emcee thanked various chairpersons by name, applauded too loudly and shouted out strokes like ‘Bravo, Diego!’ at the tops of their voices.  All too typically, once the movie began they couldn't stop themselves from talking the entire time; I had to shut them up on at least three occasions.  The fact that they were all in their fifties (at least) made it all a little embarrassing.  Well, I would hope for them, anyway

When the movie ended, Cardinale took questions from the Cinematheque’s programmer.  Midway through their talk, a lanky older man with glasses and gray hair styled into a bizarre Prince Valiant cut reminiscent of the late Brother Theodore, emerged from the audience holding a sheet of paper and approached the actress.

The programmer reached out a hand to halt him as the freak struggled to introduce himself to Cardinale.  Though the programmer had a microphone and the intruder didn’t, it gave him only a slight advantage in drowning him out. 

“Sir, could you take your seat please…”

“I don’t want an autograph, I’m…”

“This is not the venue for that.  Please take your seat.”

The freak struggled to explain himself.

“I’m not a stalker, I just wanted to introduce - ”

“This is not the venue.  Please.”

The audience was held spellbound as at last the freak backed off.

“Fine,” he said.  “It’s gonna be real funny when everyone finds out I am who I say I am!”  He turned to go, shaking his head and grumbling to himself loud enough to be heard by everyone: 

“Oh boy.  Everywhere I go I end up looking crazy!”

That got a laugh.

The man was already exiting the theater, but the programmer used his mic to summon security.

“Don’t worry - I’m leaving, buddy,” the freak called back.  It was as though he refused to subject himself or his mission to further insult.  “I’m out of here.”

The Q & A proceeded unhampered, except for the notably lame questions posed by most of the audience members:

Q: “What was it like working with Sharon Tate?”

A: “It was awful, what happened to her…”

It’s Sharon Tate we’re talking about.  What could she possibly say?  That she was a total bitch?  That she had it coming?

Q: I am a huge fan of yours.  Your film, Una Rosa Per Tutti – A Rose for Everyone, is a film I have never seen, but always wanted to see, very much…(Several minutes of incoherent babble follow.)

Programmer: I’m sorry, what was the question?

Q: …Una Rosa Per Tutti is my very favorite movie of yours.  Do you have any children?

Claudia Cardinale didn’t stay for the second feature (Don’t Make Waves, 1967) and neither did we.  On the way out I grabbed a copy of UCLA’s film schedule from the stack in the lobby and we left the theater, dodging down the less-used side exit that led to the parking lot.  Sure enough, as we passed the theater’s side door, Cardinale emerged with her entourage.

A small crowd enveloped her, and she steered them as though piloting a swollen amoeba.  She was taking them back in the direction we had just come from, back toward the courtyard and, presumably, her waiting limo on Hollywood Boulevard.

The inner circle surrounding her was comprised of publicists, assistants and the Cinematheque’s programmer, who repeatedly told the outer circle of desperate-seeming middle aged men (all morbidly expressionless as zombies) that it had been a long day and that no more of the 8 x 10’s they clutched would be signed that evening.

It was the kind of thing that people like to say was like a scene out of a Fellini movie, but those people always fail to acknowledge that Fellini usually delivered entertainment with his spectacle.

I was just about to mention to my date what a bizarre and creepy subculture autograph hounds were when a tall, younger guy stepped in my path and went up for a hi-five.

“Yeah!  Rock on, man!”  He said with a disarming familiarity, waiting for me to slap his hand.

I studied his face quickly; did I know him?

He looked down to see the UCLA schedule in my hand and his face fell.

“Oh, I thought that was a picture.  I thought you got an autograph, too.”  He held up a black and white still of Cardinale, bearing a rushed signature in blue Sharpie.  “Sorry, dude!”

He seemed sincere, but it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for interrupting my evening; he was sorry that I hadn’t got the autograph.  After all, that’s what it was all about.

I shook my head in disbelief and my date and I walked on.

“I’ve never understood those guys,” I told her.  “Half of them aren’t even especially interested in whoever they are chasing, they just want the signature.  But even the ones who are fans - why do they care?  What kind of connection do they think it gives them?  Do they think because they signed their name to a picture, it means they’re somehow friends now?  If they set it up in a frame on the little table with the dolls and the dresses, does that make them part of the tea party?”

“I feel bad for her,” I continued.  “Claudia Cardinale.  This is her world!  It’s her life, or at least a significant part of it.  Everywhere she goes, every film festival, every panel, every ‘tribute’ – this is what she has to deal with; this mania, this desperation.”

Suddenly, the obscene amounts of money paid to stars made a bit more sense to me.  An analogy to the slave trade would be overstating things, but seeing the massive salaries as a kind of ‘rental fee’ paid on behalf of the adoring public was close enough to feel right.  I was starting to get it.

A little, anyway.

copyright,  © 2006 Wyatt Doyle

for information on Wyatt Doyle's collaboration with Stanley Jason Zappa, STOP REQUESTED, click here.