David Elliott interviewed in San Diego Magazine
July 24th, 2008 by Scott Marks
I’d like to say good evening, and how do you do, ladies and gentlemen. Kup’s world ends tonight with a bunch of bon mots from the lovely Ginette Vicot. (I’d like to point out that long before Jesse Jackson’s corresponding verse, this rhymin’ Hyman had such a funny meter to the roar of his repeater, if you catch my drift.)
It’s been pointed out to yours truly, that not unlike legendary prankster Red ” Aaron Chwatt” Buttons, my friend Donald, err, uhh, David, I should say, Elliott never got a dinner.
You can’t blame a guy for wanting to throw back a few farewell stingers with Burl Stiff and his fellow penman at the Tickled Trout. More than sedi…cough…sentiment and supper, I mean, Dave wanted a chance to bid farewell to his loyal readers who couldn’t wait to rip open the Night and Day section to peruse his latest cinematic missives.
I gotta’ tell you that David was always a good man when we worked together at the Chicago Sun-Times, and according to Essee a very capable wordsmith. I preferred schmoozing with the stars to watching their dreck pictures where I frequently caught some shuteye. If only Elliott had written more about Bears great Sid Luckman, because I never was big on movie reviews. Besides, who am I to critique someone else’s writing? Truth be told, Essee writes most of this crap…Anyway, I’d like to go on record as personally thanking Dave for never letting it be known that I once let loose a trouser fillip in his presence while ascending the Chicago Theatre in their cramped elevator. Yes sir, two rode together and one blew! Heh! Heh!
Since I already ran a photo of Dave and his lovely daughter Samantha, I found it only fitting to publish a shot of his son Tarvis. That Elliott is one loyal foot soldier. I don’t care how much Marshall Field paid me, you’ wouldn’t catch me dead wearing a chazarai Sun-Times t-shirt. Only Manny’s in Elmhurst for this reporter!
Now Ivan Bunny, there’s one for movies! I tell ya’ he sees everything. He was the one that saw Meet Dave. You know, just recently, Bunny’s bald spot finally filled in. I’ll never forget the day he performed a self-inflicted Larry Fine in my office. It was right after he read where Elliott proclaimed The Road to Perdition “the greatest gangster film since The Godfather.” Now I going to stick up for the man because for this reporter’s money Perdition far outclassed Marty Scorceske’s Goodfellows or Casino. I think it was even better than Stop! or My Mom Will Shoot and Feds. (By the way, Mary Gross is a Chicago gal, I might add.)
Continue reading David Elliott interviewed in San Diego Magazine
Tags: Burl Stiff, Chicago, Chicago Sun-Times, David Elliott, David Elliott Interview, Film Critic, Ginette Vicot, Irv Kupcinet, Jesse Jackson, Kup, Kups Column, Kups World, Larry Fine, Red Buttons, San Diego, San Diego Magazine, San Diego Union Tribune, Sid LuckmanFiled Under Interviews, News
Dig A Hole: Evelyn Keyes
July 12th, 2008 by Scott Marks
Evelyn Keyes & Van Heflin in Joseph Losey’s The Prowler (1951)
Evelyn Keyes, whose four tempestuous marriages and affairs with Kirk Douglas, Anthony Quinn and producer Michael Todd frequently eclipsed her acting career, died of uterine cancer at her home in Montecito on July 4. The news was withheld until a death certificate was issued. She was 91.
Professionally, Ms. Keyes was best known for playing Scarlett O’Hara’s sister Suellen in Gone With The Wind, but it was her marriages to Barton Bainbridge (1938 - 1940), director Charles Vidor (1943 - 1945), John Huston (1946 - 1950) and Artie Shaw (1957 - 1985) transformed her into the stuff gossip columns are made of.
“I have no roots,” she told The New York Times in 1977. ”I deliberately set out to destroy them, and I did. If there’s any such thing as a hometown for me, it’s Hollywood. I was formed here as an adult.”
Ms. Keyes was born in Port Arthur, Texas, in 1916, and later moved to Atlanta where she grew up fatherless and poor. A striking blonde with a comely figure, she began her career dancing in nightclubs and set her sites on Hollywood at the tender age of 17.
In 1999, Keyes told an interviewer, “To become a big movie star like Joan Crawford you need to wear blinders and pay single-minded attention to your career. Nobody paid attention to me, including me. I was the original Cinderella girl, looking for the happy ending in the fairy story. But my fantasy prince never came.”
She was discovered by Cecil B. DeMille who signed her to a seven-year contract and cast her in his 1938 pirate epic The Buccaneer. She appeared in five bit roles for Paramount and a featured part in DeMille’s Union Pacific before gaining Hollywood immortality as Scarlett’s younger sister in Gone With the Wind.
Continue reading Dig A Hole: Evelyn Keyes
Tags: Actress, Artie Shaw, Cecil B. DeMille, Evelyn Keyes, Gone with the Wind, Hollywood, Images, Irv Kupcinet, John Huston, Marriage, Michael Todd, Mike Todd, Movie Star, Photos, Pictures, Stills, The ProwlerFiled Under Obituaries
Treasured Memories About Growing Up In Chicago, The Sequel: The Billy Goat Tavern
July 1st, 2008 by Scott Marks
How many nights did I close the Goats?
Long before John Belushi’s myth-making “Cheezeborger, Cheezeborger” transformed the Billy Goat Tavern into a tourist attraction, it was my bar of choice and it remained that way until the day I moved. It was the great equalizer, a place to drink with friends who hawked beer and Frosty Malts at Wrigley Field or catch a burger before hitting a screening with David Elliott. (Elliott never drinks…in public.)
There was nothing phony or pretentious about the subterranean watering hole. Buried beneath the Tribune Building in the bowels of Lower Michigan Ave., the Goat never saw the light of day. It was a spacious dive, it’s main room to the right as you walk in, the food court in the middle with an L-shaped bar off to the right. The nicotine lacquered walls were adorned with photos of many Chicago dignitaries.
Mike Royko wrote lovingly about the joint and many a night I saw the great Chicago journalist throwing back a few with everyone from Sun-Times pressmen to characters destined to influence his next Slats Grobnick column.
La Toitel (Credit Andrew Huff @ Flickr.com)
When I first started going there they actually had a live goat roped in a room located behind the bathrooms (Billy for boys, Nanny for girls). The hangout’s originator William Sianis was nicknamed “Billy Goat” for his uncanny resemblance to bovidae. Unfortunately, I never had the privilege of meeting the man. His son Sam Sianis, a stocky, flat-nosed Greek scrapper with the tail of his necktie forever tucked between the third and fourth button holes of his shirt, rose to power after the old Goat croaked.
Sam occasionally made an appearance at the grill (usually when the tour bus delivered a load of gawkers), doing his best imitation of Sianis-doing-Belushi-doing-Sianis. You could tell that the guy hated being reduced to a boneheaded stereotypical immigrant, but if it’s good for business…NO COKE…PEPSI!. On Saturday Night Live, the catchphrase was “No Coke…Pepsi,” while in fact the Goat served the most turned on Coca-Cola in greater Chicagoland. The high syrup-to-carbonation ratio of their pharmaceutical Coke was indeed invigorating. And a Boston coffee was always in order, particularly on those nights when it helped thaw the winter chill.
During my regime, a Greek fella named Paul was the chief burger flipper. This guy made the best goddamned double cheeseburger, so good that that’s what he called it. My pack and I would walk in the door, Paul would light up, hit the bell and yell out, “One goddamned double cheeseburger!” which was invariably followed by a softer, more sincere, “on a hard roll or bun?” I adore creatures of habit!
The horror…the horror… (Credit mnScouser @ Flickr.com )
Continue reading Treasured Memories About Growing Up In Chicago, The Sequel: The Billy Goat Tavern
Tags: Bar, Billy Goat, Billy Goat Tavern, Carl Grayson, Cheezeborger, Chicago, David Elliott, Hollis Crite, Irv Kupcinet, Jack Brickhouse, John Belushi, Marty McNeely, Mike Royko, Rock and Rye, Sam Sianis, Saturday Night Live, SNL, V.I.P. Room, WGN, William SianisFiled Under Rants
Remembering Frank Sinatra on the ten year anniversary of his death
May 14th, 2008 by Scott Marks
The last time I saw Frank Sinatra was when he opened Chicago’s United Center in October of 1994 and just about everyone was preparing for the worst. It had been six years since Frank brought the ill-fated Rat Pack reunion to Chicago and many were saying that this would be The Voice’s last groan.
Dean was not functioning in top form and by the time the reunion tour reached the Windy City, he was replaced by Judy Garland’s daughter Liza Minnelli. Liza was so much younger and more energetic than Frank and Sam that at times she appeared to be more their floor nurse than a co-headliner. Dean would have herniated a disc were he to have attempted to hoist Sammy and “accept” him on behalf of the N.A.A.C.P. Liza didn’t even try.
Frank was out of it, Sammy unduly effusive (even for a performer who put the sincere in insincerity), and Liza made Sammy appear modest by comparison. It made for a fascinating evening, but not for any of the reasons you’d have wanted. The unintentional laughs soon eclipsed any chances of witnessing awe-inspiring artistry that only the biggest of stages could hold.
That’s were my mind was when Charlie Flashback invited me to join him for Frank’s inaugural appearance at Chicago’s brand new United Center. Only a Sinatra (or the store) could get Charlie to leave his house and I lucked out because his girlfriend Nasus (they are still together) didn’t want to be bored by the Chairman and refused to go.
It was my third and final time seeing Frank perform live. My choice viewing was obviously the earliest, at Caesar’s Palace in the early 80s. While a far cry from his ring-a-ding early 60s prime, the voice was strong and his phrasing a work of art. Frank’s between-songs patter was thick-tongued Hoboken served haphazardly to the audience whether they wanted it or not. Of course they wanted it. Even Frank’s stalest “fag” joke, and there were several, drew grateful howls from the adoring assemblage.
My first inkling that Sinatra was slipping came during the 1984 Academy Awards when he presented the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award to Mike J. Frankovich, or as the confused Sinatra started to say, “Frank Mikeovich.” Vanity forbade Frank from wearing his glasses that evening and when an anxious cue card boy started flipping them too fast, the result was sixty seconds of non-stop hilarious blunders. At times he drifts into Jerry Lewis territory with sentences trailing off into nice and good nice things like that too. Other time he simply can’t keep up.
As the closed captioning proves, it was all written out ahead of time. If Frank put as much time into memorizing the brief speech as he did adjusting the schmate on his head he’d have been in and out, no embarrassment noted. Or God forbid try something spontaneous. I am constantly amazed that this man, who was capable of such eloquent phrasing, couldn’t wrap his tongue around a few simple words unless there was a band backing him up.
Later that same year, Frank was the premiere guest on the first The Jerry Lewis Show, a one week pilot for Fox. I have studied these things in such detail that the oxides have separated from the magnetic stock. Until tape of Sammy and Company surfaces, this is the closest we’ll get to a real-life Sammy Maudlin Show. Everyone and every thing was marvelous and lovely and when it came to puffing, Frank was no slouch. To further underscore his slow slide into dementia, while trying to assure Jerry that he had a hit on his hands, Frank points a thumb in Charlie Callas’ direction and says, “How can you miss with a crazy nut like this?”
The answer is, by a mile.
When he opened the United Center ten years later reports of flubbed lyrics and cumulus-sized cue cards were making headlines. Many wished that Frank would avoid further embarrassment by putting an “amen” on his career.
Eight months earlier the Grammys showed great disrespect by cutting off Frank’s rambling acceptance speech. For once it wasn’t the case of “It’s Frank’s World and We Just Live In It.” The mellow crooner loosened up and actually tried to fit it. Frank Sinatra was moved to tears, for Christ’s sake! Zoom in, don’t cut away! The powers that be interpreted it as the incoherent ramblings of an old man, sensed a ratings drop and pulled the plug on Old Blue Eyes.
I entered the United Center expecting a train wreck and left a bigger fan than ever. My effervescence had nothing to do with opening act Don Rickles. I saw Rickles with Bob Newhart at the Riviera in 1977 and later at Chicago’s Mill Run Theatre where Vic Damone opened for him. Oooohhh! I love Rickles and always have. I could watch him work up a sweat for hours, but that night in 1994 he simply wasn’t funny. There was nothing fresh about his material; the “black guy” was still in the back row singing Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah and everything appeared forced and predictable.
I’ll tell you what did make me howl, but if you join in the laughter I can ensure you a spot in hell next to me. Come close and let me warm you with this hopelessly tasteless remembrance.
It was not only the last time I saw Sinatra, it was also the last time I saw Irv Kupcinet in person. When Charlie did leave the house he went first cabin and the seats, while not on the main floor, were damn good. Good enough to have Mr. Chicago seated a few rows down from us. Charlie brought binoculars and I spent as much time time spying on Kup and Essee as I did studying Sinatra. 90% of the time Rickles was on my eyes were glued to the Kups.
Here’s where the road to hell begins. How did I know that Kup was going to be there? I didn’t, and when he appeared as if from the heavens, my brain started doing flip-flops. Kup was as big as the Statue of Liberty and twice as weathered. He was fairly frail and the sight of an old, disoriented Kup trying to descend the narrow steps in the dark was a real pisser. He looked like a marionette whose puppeteer suddenly had a coughing seizure. At one point his handler had to wrap his arms around Kup’s waist and guide him down the stairs. (Charlie probably still has bruises from where I elbowed him.) Essee, following closely behind and in heels no less, was almost as funny.
I had my fill of old age humor by the time Frank took to the stage and was bracing myself for another hour’s worth. It turned out to be about a fifty minute set and while Frank’s blue eyes were indeed old, he was hitting the high notes and didn’t fumble a lyric. How could he have? The teleprompter was almost as big as the electronic billboard that announced Charles Foster Kane’s death.
He must have sensed that this would be his last string of public appearances as the generally arrogant patter quickly made way for sentimental effusion. There were a couple of complaints concerning song choices. With Halloween a week away, he failed to deliver any Witchcraft and even more surprising, the evening’s playlist didn’t include either Chicago or My Kind of Town.
Twenty years earlier and Frank would have exited the stage to a limo waiting to whisk him to booth #1 at the Pump Room where Kup and Essee would regale in his presence till the wee small hours. With the top of the hourglass almost empty, Frank was lucky to sneak a nip from one of the hotel’s bellboys and the strongest thing Essee and Kup would drink that night was a glass of Metamucil.
It was one of those nights where I literally watched an era draw to a close before my eyes. As we exited the United Center that evening one could swear that even the wind was crying.
Links:
Frank Sinatra photos
Filed Under Rants
New Photos added: Jerry Lewis, TAXI DRIVER, Betty Boop, Jean Arthur, The 3 Stooges and more!
April 5th, 2008 by Scott Marks
Is nothing sacred?
For the past month, Emulsion Compulsion’s burgeoning Image Vault underwent some minor tweaking to smooth a few kinks in the system. Now it’s back up to speed and better than ever with over 10,000 photos for your entertainment pleasure!
Every weekend, I will post a list of all the pictures added to the Image Gallery during the previous week. It’s a bountiful harvest this week. Enjoy!
- Jean Arthur - 16 Photos
- Cartoon All-Stars - 15 Photos (Betty Boop, Popeye, Bugs Bunny, Felix the Cat, etc.)
- Vera Ellen for Bur-Mil’s Cameo Stockings
- Signed 1963 LIFE Magazine ad featuring Irv Kupcinet for Meister Brau Beer
- The Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon- 6 Photos
- Jerry Lewis - 56 Photos
- Fritz Lang’s Metropolis
- Jerry Lewis’ The Nutty Professor (1963) - 8 Lobby Cards and 4 Ads
- Raging Bull - 29 Photos
- See the Movie, Read the Book - 4 Vintage Paperbacks (Pal Joey, Charlie Chaplin, The Hustler and The Blues Brothers)
- Travis Bickle goes to the movies in Taxi Driver
- The 3 Stooges - 19 Photos from Larry Fine’s autobiography Stroke of Luck
Filed Under News
Dedicated to the One I Love: The Irv Kupcinet Bridge
January 11th, 2008 by Scott Marks
How do you do, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to say good evening as Kup’s World begins tonight with a remembrance of bridges past. The date: June Five, 1986. The occasion: The dedication of This Reporter’s bridge. And I don’t mean the one that Dr. Morris Fineman, DDS implanted free of charge in exchange for repeat mentions in this column.
You know, you gotta’ love Windy City weather. It’s June Five, the start of summer, everyone is wearing outer coats and the sky has that lovely dirty-milk bottle gray hue. HEH! HEH! It’s no wonder that some choose to live in San Diego.
In spite of the bl-ustery, bl-ueless, bl-ackened sky the sun was shining in the hearts of both myself and this reporter’s lovely bride, Essee whose name I mention in the column in exchange for a little hand release every third Sunday morning of the month.
You know, so many people have…had, I should say, been walking all over me for decades it just seemed right to name a bridge in my honor. So many dignitaries were in attendance. Of course there was the Polish Prince, Roman ‘Pooch’ Pucinski. Yes sir, you can’t fool me, I’m for Pucinski, to borrow from his old campaign jingle. I gotta’ tell ya’ when the two of us stand facing each other in profile it looks like a couple of Buicks about to collide. Nya-Ha! Unfortunately, his lovely wife…daughter, err pardon me, Areola was not in attendance. She was at home with five other family members shaking the stove in order to make popcorn.
It goes without saying, I’d like to add, that WGM-Radio’s Wally Phillips was on hand with microphone in hand and dishrag on head. His makes my rug look like George Chakiris. And to think he married that same Barbara gal so many times and she never told him.
Unfortunately my dear friend Sig Sakowicz was unable to attend. While running late he accidentally tripped over his left breast and had to be rushed to Our Lady of Blazonyczik Mercy Hospital in Libertyville. Maybe it’s a good thing. The last time Sig and Burton Natarus were in the same room together the alderman tried fitting him with a horse diaper.
Another bl-ow was that I failed to get a good picture taken with my kind of town’s favorite idiot movie savant, Scott Markus. There were so many topics that I wanted to cover with him, most notably Eisenstein’s employment of dia-lec-tical montage and the use of signs and signifiers in the films of Jean Marie Straub.
Sadly, this is the only photographic representation that exists of our meeting. Look at that lousy picture. It would have been better with the lens cap on. I’ve seen sharper compositions in Kevin Smith films. Scott was gracious enough to bring a copy of Kup’s Chicago, my tome to the city I call home, for me to inscribe. Looking on is Chicago’s first bl-ack mayor, the honorable Harold Washington, who, underneath his business suit, was wearing a lovely Seymour Paisan designer original.
I remember at the precise moment of signing Essee leaning over and whispering in my ear, “It’s K-U-P-C-I-N-E-T.” We shook hands and Scott burst out laughing when I tickled the inside of his palm with my middle finger. Always a sure-fife yuk-getter. As for a posed picture together, some things are never meant to be. After the crowd dispersed, I just looked around for Scott and like Abraham, Lincoln and Marovitz, he was gone.
Here is a link to more photos of the dedication taken by Devon Avenue’s premier portraiture, Mlodinoff Studios whose services were offered gratis in exchange for this mention.
And good night to one and all!
Tags: Abraham Lincoln Marovitz, Burton Natarus, Chicago, Essee Kupcinet, Harold Washington, Irv Kupcinet, Kup-s Column, Oaf, Roman Pucinski, Sun-TimesFiled Under Rants
keep looking »
Twitter Feed- scottmarks: Apart from decrepit whoremaster Hugh Hefner's line readings, there is nothing to laugh at in THE HOUSE BUNNY.
- scottmarks: Are the fucking Olympics over yet? Unless Leni Riefenstahl is the DP I have zero interest.
- scottmarks: WTF? THE HOUSE BUNNY is about Playboy sluts and it's rated PG-13. Who wants to see soft core for prepubescent minds? Rent a porno instead!
- scottmarks: indiana jones and the media temple of doom...lousy tin horn server. Hurry up, fellas. I have to dig a hole for George Furth!!!
- scottmarks: A Question of VERTIGO: Last week I received a frantic late night call from my friend Herb Ross asking.. http://tinyurl.com/5kz92w
- scottmarks: Even an unending stream of close-ups and sandpaper cinematography can't CHOKE the brilliance (and hilarity) of Chuck Palahniuk.
- scottmarks: Another Ben Kingsley film? YAAAAAAAY!!! Will "Transsiberian" be "Transamerica" with a Russian tranny?
- scottmarks: “The Adventures of Jerry Lewis” Comic Book No. 112: While hastening to find suitable read.. http://tinyurl.com/62ec9b
-
Quotes, Quips and Fun Facts
-
There's no such thing as a bad genre. Only bad storytellers.
-
Image Vault
