Canadian Film Weekly (Jan 8, 1947)

Short Short Story _ To See Her Face He stood at the gate smiling while the car that had brought him home turned. When the noise of it died out in the distance he walked straight up the path and entered the house. In the hall he stood attentively still, his ears keyed to pick up the familiar sounds of a busy person. "There was only quiet. “Rose!” he called. Uneasy at her absence, he moved to his chair by the open window and waited restlessly. Not an hour before he had phoned the good news and he was impatient to talk it over with her. He lost himself thinking about her and the exciting days to come. He sat there for a long time, the will to rise benumbed by the realization that her absence was self-willed, that he might never see her again. The sharp instinct of his kind told him that. When he rose the dark despair that had ruled over him before her coming had returned. The days went by without her slowly and cheerlessly, with no end to the constant wondering as to why there had been no explanation, no farewell. It must be that the need for her well-hidden pity had ended with the news that his sight would return, the pity he hated and had always rejected. His loneliness before she came had been self-chosen, the product of pride. He had never returned to his own part of the country, isolating himself in this village near New York to keep the knowledge of his blindness from family and friends. She had come in response to his ad for a housekeeper. To him, unhindered by confusing sight, her personality reached out rich and clear. In his mind their lives had become interwoven. Now he realized how little he really knew about her, how uninclined she had been to talk about herself. What had kept her devoted to him through all the sightless years? She could have worked at a more valued task elsewhere, since her education was obviously above her servile position. Perhaps pity alone, since it appeared now that her feelings had never matched his. She had written his letters home, keeping his secret out of them. Their life together had made the years more than bearable. Here was no crowded world. A blind man needs a sense of space; he must hear the birds and the crickets, share nature with them to keep the feel of life. Old scenes came to mind. He would soon see again the squirrels drinking dew from the leafy cups and the gleam of the grass in the late afternoon. There was the lovely lacework of fallen leaves that enmeshed the hills in autumn. He would know again the simple, cheery, friendliness of his father’s field hands, see their reverent faces as they lifted their lovely voices in song and in prayer. But what could it all mean to him if he was never to hear her voice again?—the voice that had been his guide through the long night. He must find her. The thought gripped him hard. He wanted -to tear the bandages from his eyes. He must find her. The bustling of this new woman angered him, this alien who catered to his helplessness. He wanted to drive her out of this house that was still alive with the other one. He must go to New York. Alone, as she had always encouraged him. She was somewhere in that raging tumult. He must find her, hold her close again, see her face. Yes, see her face. The mental picture he had of her was becoming vague. He must see her face just once... Rose stood outside the mean place she called home and looked along the shabby street. How odd, she thought, that no single word spoken carelessly had revealed her. Would it have mattered to him? Perhaps she should huve told him a long time ago. But the psychology of rejection had been too strong. Her heart was heavy with the homecoming. ‘Home again,” she said to herself. “I’m home again.” Home again—to Harlem. % % * (The above story, written by me, was first printed in The Grecible and was later reprinted in The Canadian Woman.) Canadian FILM WEEKLY i Hy o 7 SQUARE ized s 1 Og Variviews and After-Effects “COURAGE, FRIEND!” George Bernard Shaw wrote, “We all loathe Christmas; but it comes only once a year and it’s soon over.” GBS's point of view is much less annoying if read after Christmas instead of before. Time and Yuletide wait for no man, sweeping all with it regardless of determination to go easy on the ubiquitous turkey and the endless flow. It’s tough on a fellow supposed to take notes as he flitters through glitter. I do remember Harrison Patte showing up at the PRC party with a chain linking his secretary to him. After a while he pulled out a screwdriver and freed her and himself. Company parties were smaller and quieter this year, being for the most part limited to staffs and a few guests, most of them bookers. Odeon and Famous Players didn’t invite the trade to mingle with their staffs, as they have in the past, but Columbia-Premier, Odeon and Twentieth Century Theatres entertained guests at separate affairs. That gave the staffs a chance to enjoy themselves without strangers cluttering up the atmosphere. For those who had to work Christmas Eve while most of the citizenry was enjoying itself, it was just another night. But, after all, Santa Claus had to work on Christmas Eve too, didn’t he? ae ok * LOU ROSENFELD OF COLUMBIA received the following wire in the usual telegraph typography, which I have altered here to provide easier reading: “All previous invitations to the contrary, please be advised that you are definitely and positively not invited to the United Artists party this afternoon at five o’clock. Please be guided accordingly. Douglas V. Rosen.” Of course Mr. Rosenfeld, who wasn’t sure about coming, was present, for who could ignore such a reminder and so broad a . hint? * # %* ROLY YOUNG’S AMPLE and eye-pleasing romp, “Gone With the North Wind,” added to the brightness of the festive season around here. Presented by the Civic Theatre Association in the Hart House of the University of Toronto as ‘A Christmas Pantomine-Extravaganza,” it was about a boy named Diamond who is shown the sights by Jack Frost and North Wind. Jack Frost is always frivolous and occasionally lecherous and North Wind is a somewhat angelic lady until she breaks into a grindless bump, a la Casino. Much of Roly’s sprightly dialogue has the flavor of that emporium about it. What goes on is mainly Adult Entertainment and would be over Master Diamond’s conk —unless he’s a pretty hep youngster or almost a juvenile delinquent. . The town’s best talent in many an art worked in the production by Roly—Hal Marquette, Poul Bai, Vincend Da Vita, Cosette Lee, the Canadian Mastersingers, Bettina Byers, Lillian Milne, Joe Jolley, the Madsen Dancers and others. Its several excellent production numbers and magnificent finale deserved full orchestral support instead of mere piano accompaniment. * * 1k : YOU CAN ALWAYS HEAR a tough-luck tale from a fellow who knows one when he hears one. A current yarn, allegedly true, is about a man who intended entertaining his family at a Yuletide reunion in a downtown hotel. For months he, family and friends saved. their liquor until they had 62 bottles. Then, just before the party, the host packed the whiskey and sent it to his hotel suite with an expressman. The expressman took it to the right number—but the wrong hotel. The man who answered the door phoned the police when he heard it was liquor. It was a dry party indeed. According to the story, the liquor-was returned when it was shown that it had been gathered by relatives, who got their contributions back. The host was fined for having the stuff in an illegal place. (Continued on Page 8)