Whoo Hoo!!
Feb. 8th, 2006 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowThanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
vonnie_k, I now know that possibly my favorite movie ever, Holiday, is being released on DVD. Now, it's only available in a five pack set of other Cary Grant comedies, but considering that set also includes My Girl Friday, this is hardly a hardship.
Holiday is a really wonderful comedy with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. It's based on a Philip Barry play, and it's the sort of movie you finish and instantly want more of, want something to offer up the same feeling. It's about disappointed ideals, and finding love, and about looking for purpose and not quite finding it, until one day, it finds you. It's sort of warm and sad and bittersweet and frothy and more pointed than you expect.
So, quite unexpectedly, I wrote a teeny tiny little snippet that takes place after the curtain closes. It will likely not mean anything unless you've seen the film.
The last time she remembers someone taking her hand, she was 8 years old and Julia had on pristine white gloves and she made a face at Linda. "You'll make them dirty," she'd said, prim and precise even then.
"No, I won't," Linda promised, eyes wide, and took Neddy's hand as well.
Julia slipped her fingers free until their mother turned around, but Neddy clung tight, watching the cars go by in front of the church.
Now Johnny Case reaches for her fingers, hands resting on the brushed velvet settee in the tiny compartment. The ship sways too and fro and he strokes her fingers. There is space between their bodies, and his hand is damp, fingers cool. He looks at her wrist instead of looking at her eyes.
"Do you want to be married?" he asks, and the question curls up in the air like cigarette smoke.
"Yes," she says, pauses, thinks. She's failed at so many things, but this… "At least I think so. It seems the thing to do."
He sighs, something very like relief crossing his fine features, and looks up at her. "Good. I think we can do it here. The captain and all. Nick and Susan can be witnesses."
She smiles at him, still astonished that she can, that they tumbled and rolled and landed on their feet despite the moments on the floor in the hall. Her stomach is still somewhere near her throat and she keeps telling herself to breath.
"I'll have to find a dress," she says, and thinks of Julia in her perfect gown, in her white gloves. She clutches at Johnny's hand, tugging at him until he moves closer, until his long thigh presses up against hers. "Perhaps I won't bother."
Later, at supper, Susan clasps her hand underneath the table, skin dry and powdery. Nick and Johnny have gone to the deck to take cigars. Linda didn't know he smoked cigars, and it reminds her of her father. Homesickness crests like a wave, and tears prick at her eyes.
"We're so very glad you came, dear," says Susan Elliot, Susan Potter now, who spoke at Linda's college and is married to Johnny's best friend and is holding Linda's hand under the table like she's a very small, very scared girl. It occurs to her, for the first time, that perhaps she is. She used up all her bravery in saying goodbye.
"We're going to be married," she says to Susan, and laughs. It's suddenly so very funny. Weeks of being the bridesmaid, and suddenly she's here, the bride.
Susan squeezes her hand then lets go to take her flute of champagne. "Yes, dear. It's marvelous."
"Yes," Linda says, wiping her palm on her skirt. "I think so too. Although…"
She lifts her glass to her lips, thinks of Neddy and his merry go round, puts the glass back down. "It doesn't seem quite real."
Susan's mouth turns in a moue of sympathy, of kindness that Linda doesn't think is quite deserved so she rushes on ahead. "I suppose that will all change, living with someone every day, seeing their dirty socks and what they eat for breakfast and how they fall asleep. I think that will feel very real."
Susan's eyebrow twitches and she puts a hand on Linda's arm. "No," she says, "That will always seem strange."
The Potters discretely close their door, and she can hear their lock turn with a distinct click. She and Johnny stand behind the settee, the door to his room open. It seems very dark in there.
"Would you like…" he looks down at the settee which is half his height. She loves him, she thinks, because he offered. Because he's here on this boat with the people he loves best. He's very beautiful in this light, dark hair against his pale forehead, standing so very close. "No," she says, no longer a dilettante, no longer waiting for purpose. She reaches down, takes his hand, walks the few steps towards the dark room. When they cross the threshold, she knows that she will turn down the covers and that he will shut the door behind them.
vonnie_k, I now know that possibly my favorite movie ever, Holiday, is being released on DVD. Now, it's only available in a five pack set of other Cary Grant comedies, but considering that set also includes My Girl Friday, this is hardly a hardship.Holiday is a really wonderful comedy with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. It's based on a Philip Barry play, and it's the sort of movie you finish and instantly want more of, want something to offer up the same feeling. It's about disappointed ideals, and finding love, and about looking for purpose and not quite finding it, until one day, it finds you. It's sort of warm and sad and bittersweet and frothy and more pointed than you expect.
So, quite unexpectedly, I wrote a teeny tiny little snippet that takes place after the curtain closes. It will likely not mean anything unless you've seen the film.
The last time she remembers someone taking her hand, she was 8 years old and Julia had on pristine white gloves and she made a face at Linda. "You'll make them dirty," she'd said, prim and precise even then.
"No, I won't," Linda promised, eyes wide, and took Neddy's hand as well.
Julia slipped her fingers free until their mother turned around, but Neddy clung tight, watching the cars go by in front of the church.
Now Johnny Case reaches for her fingers, hands resting on the brushed velvet settee in the tiny compartment. The ship sways too and fro and he strokes her fingers. There is space between their bodies, and his hand is damp, fingers cool. He looks at her wrist instead of looking at her eyes.
"Do you want to be married?" he asks, and the question curls up in the air like cigarette smoke.
"Yes," she says, pauses, thinks. She's failed at so many things, but this… "At least I think so. It seems the thing to do."
He sighs, something very like relief crossing his fine features, and looks up at her. "Good. I think we can do it here. The captain and all. Nick and Susan can be witnesses."
She smiles at him, still astonished that she can, that they tumbled and rolled and landed on their feet despite the moments on the floor in the hall. Her stomach is still somewhere near her throat and she keeps telling herself to breath.
"I'll have to find a dress," she says, and thinks of Julia in her perfect gown, in her white gloves. She clutches at Johnny's hand, tugging at him until he moves closer, until his long thigh presses up against hers. "Perhaps I won't bother."
Later, at supper, Susan clasps her hand underneath the table, skin dry and powdery. Nick and Johnny have gone to the deck to take cigars. Linda didn't know he smoked cigars, and it reminds her of her father. Homesickness crests like a wave, and tears prick at her eyes.
"We're so very glad you came, dear," says Susan Elliot, Susan Potter now, who spoke at Linda's college and is married to Johnny's best friend and is holding Linda's hand under the table like she's a very small, very scared girl. It occurs to her, for the first time, that perhaps she is. She used up all her bravery in saying goodbye.
"We're going to be married," she says to Susan, and laughs. It's suddenly so very funny. Weeks of being the bridesmaid, and suddenly she's here, the bride.
Susan squeezes her hand then lets go to take her flute of champagne. "Yes, dear. It's marvelous."
"Yes," Linda says, wiping her palm on her skirt. "I think so too. Although…"
She lifts her glass to her lips, thinks of Neddy and his merry go round, puts the glass back down. "It doesn't seem quite real."
Susan's mouth turns in a moue of sympathy, of kindness that Linda doesn't think is quite deserved so she rushes on ahead. "I suppose that will all change, living with someone every day, seeing their dirty socks and what they eat for breakfast and how they fall asleep. I think that will feel very real."
Susan's eyebrow twitches and she puts a hand on Linda's arm. "No," she says, "That will always seem strange."
The Potters discretely close their door, and she can hear their lock turn with a distinct click. She and Johnny stand behind the settee, the door to his room open. It seems very dark in there.
"Would you like…" he looks down at the settee which is half his height. She loves him, she thinks, because he offered. Because he's here on this boat with the people he loves best. He's very beautiful in this light, dark hair against his pale forehead, standing so very close. "No," she says, no longer a dilettante, no longer waiting for purpose. She reaches down, takes his hand, walks the few steps towards the dark room. When they cross the threshold, she knows that she will turn down the covers and that he will shut the door behind them.
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no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 09:23 pm (UTC)And now I must purchase Holiday... I absolutely ADORE the movies CG and KH are in together. Philadelphia Story gets play time at least once a month in my house, Bringing Up Baby right behind it. Holiday being slightly less slapstick but equally entertaining on the heartfelt level, is always on the boobtube when TCM is airing it, no matter what time of day.
And, hee, as I pretty much LIVE My Girl Friday.... bwuaaaaaaaa!
Thanks for the tip, and the lovely snippet!
no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 10:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 09:38 pm (UTC)"No," she says, no longer a dilettante, no longer waiting for purpose. She reaches down, takes his hand, walks the few steps towards the dark room.
This particular bit, I loved the most, I think. I almost wish it had ended there, although I do like the following sentence very well.
My discs haven't shipped yet and I am feeling impatient. But it's a good sort of impatience, tempered by anticipatory glee.
Thanks for writing this. It's lovely.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 10:12 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it. And I thought about stopping it at the final sentence, but I wanted them to step into that room, to close the door on any lingering doubt.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-09 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-09 12:09 am (UTC)and wheee!!! i so love the movie 'holiday'. edward everett horton too! and "the 5th avenue anti-stuffed shirt and flying trapeze club."
thank you for the heads up that it's *finally* out on dvd.
and a big *hug* for writing this wonderful snippet. this is wonderful: " She used up all her bravery in saying goodbye."
and you've reminded me how powerful *all* of their stories are. how the movie shows the potential directions for all of them. and the ending you wrote here made me tear up a bit for the joy that they made the choices they did.
:::happy sigh:::
no subject
Date: 2006-02-09 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-09 01:01 am (UTC)*bg*
no subject
Date: 2006-02-13 06:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-13 07:04 am (UTC)