MuseLetter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Killer's Kiss
That’s the title of an early Stanley Kubrick film, before he became the Stanley Kubrick now considered to be one of the most influential filmmakers in cinema history. In 1955, this was only the second film he’d ever made. It was shown last month at the Paris Theater—“Manhattan’s last remaining single screen movie palace”—as part of a Noir City: New York film series. Which in a thumbnail, they described this film as …
A dazzling film noir about a struggling New York boxer whose life is imperiled when he protects a nightclub dancer from her gangster boss.
Chinatowner in the 4th
I was placing bets at college
In my swag sharkskin suits
On the phone through my uncle
Playing hunches on the horses.
The brothers of the Lasallian order
In their cardboard collars would have frowned.
This was after all a Catholic college;
I might have been on shaky ground.
Between courses in the lunchroom
Or smoking Winstons in the hall
I would contemplate the odds of just
One long shot coming home.
Others might wait for their ships to come in
On docks with planks built on spines of books.
I sensed a ship somewhere strewn on the rocks.
Hence the horses; hence the calls.
"At the 'Big A,' Chinatowner in the 4th."
"Win, Place or Show?"— his perfunctory reply.
"To win." And it did at 40-1!
My uncle was murdered that day with a gun.
Only stories written
In great big fonts
Beneath great big pictures
Have an ending and moral to tell.
But here, the horses are still running.
And there, my uncle is still dead.
Or there, the horses are still dead.
And here, my uncle is still running.
1999
Quote of the Month
I had seen it twice before. Once in its original run over 70 years ago in the theater when I was about 11, and a long time after on TV. But now, I had to be there to see it again. Not to check out a budding filmmaker’s work, but to see my uncle’s work in it. Oh, he’s not really in the movie per se. Just an extra in the background in a couple of scenes in a gym. Where he’s viciously punching a body opponent bag. Vibrant, fit, toned, muscular, all of 27 years of age. Yet already retired from a brief career as a professional boxer. (With a record, as reported by A.I., of 9-5-2 with 3 knockout victories).
I remember him telling us at grandma’s house, that he got $50 for doing these gym scenes. Which was a good piece of change back in 1955. For being an extra? The film itself only took about $60,000 to make. Which Kubrick had to borrow from family and friends. Of course back then, who knew who Kubrick was? Did Kubrick himself know? And who knew my uncle would be dead just ten years later.
He’s been gone now for over 60 years; murdered at age 37. To which I made reference in a piece I wrote in last November’s MuseLetter, recounting that dreadful week of November 1965. Which included the curious death of Dorothy Kilgallen and the Great Northeast Blackout. Here was a chance to see him alive once more. Our family did not own a home movie camera back then. We had all to do to come up with the rent. Killer’s Kiss, in that way, serves as a home movie of uncle Frankie (Frankie Black as he was known in the neighborhood), fleeting as it is.
Having gotten to the theater way too early on another sweltering day in this “Naked City,” (as a popular TV cop show once “noirishly” entitled it), and with time to kill without a kiss, I related a lot of this story about my uncle (save, his murder), to the young man sitting in the ticket booth. Imagine. An actual booth. Where you can still buy an actual ticket to enter this “palace.” F___ Fandango!
Turns out, young ticket-booth guy, is a big fan of Kubrick and specifically claims that Killer’s Kiss is one of his favorites. He’s obviously a film buff, when not absorbed in a book. Which he was when I approached. When I try to pay him for the ticket, he pushes back my credit card saying…”With a story like that, one you never hear”…and passes a ticket to me at no charge. That is to say if you will, a movie “on the house.”
What I have just experienced is one of those New York moments chronicled in the Sunday New York Times Metropolitan section under the feature Metropolitan Diary. "A beloved, readers-contributed column that captures the everyday humanity, quirks and fleeting serendipity of New York City life." I may just submit this moment of serendipity to the column. (I was published in there some three and a half years ago). And to think, I hadn’t even stepped into the theater yet.
As for a review of the film itself, I’ll leave it up to the reader to scope it out if curious. It seems to be rising in its Rotten Tomatoes score, and has aired from time to time on Turner Movie Classics.
When my uncle first appears early on, I find myself getting a bit misty-eyed. There he was once more. Savagely going at that bag. Coming alive; this piece of family mythology.
Misty eyes aside, I now settled in to view this as a Kubrick film. Not an uncle Frankie film. Where I would find touches of imaginative brilliance. Not only in the cinematography, but in scenes themselves played out in ways, that no 1950’s audience would have ever seen before. Despite the storyline itself being steeped in the tried and true noir genre.
Spoiler alert… take that scene in a warehouse toward the end of the film, where mannequins are made and stored. It is rift with allusions to the story line, in a way I had never noticed before. Whereby two men both seeking the love and affections of a young blonde dance hall girl, are now using female mannequins and their body parts, as both weapons and shields in their fight-to-the-death confrontation. With a window pole and a fire axe being brought into the fray, suggestive of medieval knights in armor doing battle for the hand of a young maiden.
When I emerged from the theater, New York had been transformed from the sunny day when I had entered, into a film noir sort of haze as I now exited. Not unlike that rooftop scene with a Brooklyn Bridge in background, seen as if through a scrim— another exquisite Kubrick touch. It was like stepping out of a movie... into a movie; a thought waxing rhapsodic in my mind. Though realizing that this haze was likely the aftermath of a downpour. It had been raining while we were inside. Actually, I’d later learn, that this had all been created by smoke coming in from careless Canadian forest fires. My notions of life imitating art, doused by a bucket of cold reality. Yet the embers of serendipity, remained all aglow.
Word of the Month
aleatory ale·a·to·ry ˈā-lē-ə-ˌtȯr-ē
1: depending on an uncertain event or contingency as to both profit and loss
an aleatory contract
2: relating to luck and especially to bad luck
3: aleatoric characterized by chance or indeterminate elements
Etymology
Borrowed from Latin āleātōrius "of gamblers or games of chance," derivative of āleātor "gambler," from ālea "game of chance, gamble" (of obscure origin) + -ā-, verb formative + -tor, agent suffix
First Known Use
1693, in the meaning defined at sense 1
Time Traveler
The first known use of aleatory was in 1693
Source: Merriam Webster
Used in a Sentence
In Dupieux’s* absurdity, human behavior is not aleatory but reflects specific social
and psychological realities.
— Armond White, National Review, 23 July 2021
* Quentin Dupieux is a French filmmaker and electronic musician, also known as Mr. Oizo, recognized for his surreal, absurdist films and experimental music.
Scenes from a Journal #5
July 26, 2026
I gave myself over to the 2nd Avenue bus to the Lower East Side, to go see “As You Like It” — by way of Shakespeare in the Parking Lot (in its 31st year). Something we've done before. As always, they deliver with a solid production.
Amazing how they put these things together on less than a shoestring. Equity cast; well-acted all around. That said, it was too long! Excruciatingly so. 2 ½ hours without intermission. And because we had gotten there early, my ass was in that plastic chair, for over 3 hours. When it was over—I was spent. More so than if I would have actually been performing in the Bard’s convoluted play. The spirit being willing, the flesh not so much so.
I am not the most fervent fan of Shakespeare’s comedies in general. I oft get lost early on in the plot, and the inevitable cross-dressing, and too, what with the language getting in the way. All modern dress aside, and attempts to contemporize the proceedings. But we had friends in it. Thus we goeth. And a kingdom was not lost for the effort. Just the horse I rode in on.
On one critical note, there was a bit too much schtick by one actor in particular. I wanted to shout out at one point, “This is being done amidst passing honking cars, and folks so close at hand, but tis not a game show with Pee Wee Herman as host.” Which is what at times he appeared to be, in tearing down a fourth wall which doesn't exist in a parking lot to begin with. "Please, Touchstone, the play is the thing."
It had been a wonderfully dry summer’s day and evening. After all the days of dreadful sweating through humidity and temperatures that could threaten one’s very existence. (“Make sure you hydrate. Drink plenty of water.”). Even that bus ride, pleasantly AC’d and uncrowded—an express; Jo knows her buses— was sublime. We were there in no time.
Walking toward the venue, but in need of a bite to eat, I notice a perfect place. At the corner of Rivington and Ludlow, Pretty Rickey’s. Turns out to be “a popular spot in the LES nightlife scene; nostalgic…fun vibe,” according to A.I. Yes. This is New York. You don’t need to plan. You will encounter something along the way that can make a day. This sort of did. Open aired comfortable…good food...trendy… we are the oldest people in here. Maybe, ever? Interlopers taking in a scene born of Gen Y and Zers, we promise to return one evening after dark.
That this LES of my youth would ever be so transformed one day?
Where have all the Jewish merchants gone
Long time passing.
Where have all the Jewish merchants gone.
Long time ago.
Finishing up the meal washed down by a coupla’ craft beers—right across the street, a place for dessert: Rice to Riches. A place serving rice pudding exclusively. In lieu of ice cream. And in all sorts of concocted rice pudding flavors. What a concept! And in a futuristically designed store with outer space-like tables no less. Again, not to belabor my love for this city—and why can’t I?—you ain’t finding such establishments in Des Moines.
From there we'd go over to that parking lot (a schoolyard really) to see the play. Which while lengthy, was well received by an audience that had sizably grown since our first arrival on the scene. At the conclusion, a standing ovation was in order for the yeoman work done by the cast. But alas, when it was over, we felt too drained go out afterwards with our friends in the play, and their friends in attendance.
Instead, we'd walk the couple of blocks over to Houston St. to grab a cab. There would be no busing on the return trip. As I am a taxi whisperer, we'd get one in no time. Though this cab ride would present me with one of those newly New York experiences that I don’t love. A cab driver who doesn’t know the way. Where are those "dez-demz-'n-doz" cab drivers of yore? But I’ll save it perhaps for a future Muse piece. Something along the lines of “Existential Thoughts in a Taxi”? We’ll see. Not all first thoughts come to fruition. Not all plans go exactly as planned. Sometimes turning out for all the better when all is said and done. As if in a midsummer night’s dream?
poem by Ron Vazzano; photo by the Artemis II astronauts
