Obviously the writers of the movies (and of the plays and books that became movies) of this era knew they were introducing characters who were in some sense queer. The actors seem to know precisely what they’re communicating. But for the popular viewer, how much did they know? How did they see these films? What did they think was happening in them? It’s so appealing. I don’t mean the censorship itself, but the sly, subtle representations of bubbling subconscious—who can resist?

One of the things I keep finding are scenes in which two cohabitating people argue about one of them creating too much clutter, not going out and working or seeing other people. There is an erotic communication behind each one. One partner is holed up in the house, drinking too much and making a mess, and demanding that the other partner must love him anyway. The other comes home to clean up the mess, marching around and demanding changes that will never happen. This is, I think, one way that repressed queer desire gets to say what it wants. It says, look at me and love me with all my filth. And it says, I can only love you with all the filth removed from view.

In the very charming 1961 film Goodbye Again, Ingrid Bergman plays a 40-year-old interior decorator in Paris whose boyfriend Yves Montand is constantly cancelling plans to chase after idiotic twentysomethings. So when the plainly insane 25-year-old Anthony Perkins appears and begins declaring his passionate (and clearly Oedipal) love for her, she puts up a heroic and hysterical effort to resist before being terrorized into giving it a go. As one might predict, he’s obsessive and perverse, and wants to make their affair as public as possible, in ways that expose her as just as queer as he is. One day she comes home to find him drunkenly napping and sulking, and threatens to break up with him, with bizarre results:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Here’s a very different version of the same scene, but doubled, in the disturbing 1963 film The Servant. James Fox plays a dissipated upper-class young man who hires an extremely traditional-seeming manservant, Dirk Bogarde, who subtly invades his private life and destroys his chances of marriage and success. Once he realizes he’s been duped, in a truly shocking scene, he finds he is too dependent on the servant to dispense with him. Instead, the two enter an intense contest of wills in which each man takes a turn accusing the other of being filthy as a way of asserting his dominance:

Click here to view the embedded video.

These scenes of filth and confrontation have more erotic content than a thousand frozen-mouthed Hays-Code kisses. By the time both of these films were made, sexual subjects—even queer ones—had already begun to be explored in mainstream cinema in fairly unambiguous ways. The plays Suddenly Last Summer and The Children’s Hour were made into films in 1959 and 1961, respectively, and both plots hinge entirely on gay sexual desire. There was a new explicitness available about queerness. But I think what I love especially about movies of the late 50′s and early 60′s is the persistence of queer content presented in Freudian semaphore.

What did average filmgoers see when they saw these movies? My mother was only a teenager when she saw The Servant, but she claims she developed a searingly painful erotic obsession with Dirk Bogarde, and, if one believes the hundreds of obsessive sexual fantasies typed into YouTube comments about Anthony Perkins in Goodbye Again, I think perhaps that film may have functioned similarly for others.

I don’t want to knock explicitness. I love explicitness. But there’s something about not saying what you mean that requires a sublimely creative—and perverted—imagination.

Sometimes you hear a song for the first time when your heart is breaking. When you are left and lost and sure no one has ever felt this alone. Then you hear this song and it is everything you feel sung exactly how you feel it. It is the soundtrack to your sad montage, a collective wail that only you can hear, dragging you forward as each scene unfolds.

Pretty Saro is that song for me.

When I first come to this country in Eighteen and Forty-nine
I saw many fair lovers but I never saw mine
I viewed it all around me, saw I was quite alone
and me a poor stranger and a long way from home

 It is a song typical of the genre I love but unique in my emotional discography. Pretty Saro dates back to the early 1700’s. The story suggests it originated in England where Saro was probably Sarah. The song can be traced only so far in the old country and then it vanishes, showing up a hundred years later in North Carolina. The lyrical dating of 1849 could have been 1749, aligning the song with an influx of Irish and Scottish immigrants to America. Saro, as she is now called, must have resonated with these new balladeers and the song moved across Appalachia, beloved in nearly every state and holler.

The story is simple. The singer loves Saro and wants to marry her. Saro wants a “freeholder” or a man who owns and cultivates a small estate. It is interesting that a “freeholder” was neither a gentleman nor a laborer, but an emerging class somewhere in between. The singer, however, has no land. Saro, or more likely her family, has ambition and wants all the “silver and gold that a fine house can hold.” She rejects the proposal and our protagonist leaves home. But Saro haunts him. He imagines all the ways to tell her how much he loves her, pleading with her to change her mind, but in the end, he knows she is out of reach.  

Pretty Saro was first recorded in the early 20^th century when a few academic heroes travelled through the mountains capturing songs that had been handed down through oral tradition. Although there are multiple lyric variations, there are two primary musical versions. One is sweeter and usually played with a mandolin or guitar. The other is more plaintive and sung with minimal or no accompaniment.  As with all music of this genre, the gender of the singer is irrelevant which gives the song a universal power, transcending a boy-girl love story. Pretty Saro carries the weight of all wandering strangers pining for another life, a happy ending that seems to elude them.  

This is one of my favorite songs. The appeal has spanned years and if I have any say, it will be part of how I am remembered. I collect recordings and compare the subtle differences in how the words and verses are ordered, how the intonations of the singer denote the regional origins of that version, how the singer interprets the content. For me the song evokes a longing that is so deep, so essential, when I listen to it I feel more human. I feel kindness and affection for those who share a similar ache. And mostly I think of my own Pretty Saro, wherever I go.

Here are three of the many renditions of Pretty Saro available on YouTube (more on iTunes!). The first is by Elizabeth LaPrelle. Elizabeth looks ageless but she is very young, in her early twenties. She is part singer, part historian, in that she sings in a very authentic style. Her version probably sounds the closest to how the song might have been sung way back when. Her five minute version also includes every known lyric. Iris Dement is stunning, her performance was recorded for a movie. Sam Amidon sings a truly lovely Saro for a modern audience. He has a music video of the song as well, but I could not resist a cute guy playing a guitar.

Sometimes a song is more than a song. Sometimes it calls back a specific moment in time, a mood, a person. The voice in Pretty Saro also searches beyond memory toward a new identity. One that accepts desire, loss and the inevitable “dawning of day.”  

Elizabeth LaPrelle

Iris Dement

Sam Amidon 

1.) This song “A Real Hero” by College (feat. Electric Youth) is from the movie Drive. I could not stop playing this song every day, ten times a day, for a week straight. Especially after experiencing the movie. Go ahead, see the movie and see if you do not play this song obsessively. And if you go, which I strongly recommend, know this: it has some serious violence. I felt a bit traumatized when the movie ended. But also, I felt like I had just watched something amazing. One of my favorite movies of the year. Anyone else feel the same?

Click here to view the embedded video.

2.) Berlin. While visiting that city a couple weeks ago we were struck by a few things. First, it’s a really really fun place to visit right now (ok, for a few years now, but we’re late to the party). It’s cheap. It’s energized. There is a DIY artistic entrepreneurial-ness everywhere. Except for the food–which is terrible (Such a weird defect in a world-class city. But, communism, I imagine, was not a nurturing patron of inventive cuisines. Also, as a guide book pointed out, Germany’s short-lived stint as a World Empire meant that its colonies never got a gastro-foot-hold in Berlin, unlike say, Britain’s Indian cuisine, France’s Moroccan, Dutch’ Indonesian, etc.) Another thing, a lot of people walk their dogs off-leash. And people don’t seem to care. And people walk their dogs right onto the subway. It’s a very permissive city. You can buy beer, wine, liquor at just about any corner store. And throughout the night. And you can carry it on the street. Or onto the subway. Berlin’s treatment of alcohol is fascinating. I’ve never seen people on a subway car at 10:30 in the morning enjoying a large green bottle of beer. People who look like they’re on their way to work. Perhaps other countries in the world are just as permissive, I’ve just never seen it displayed like this before. The other thing about Berlin is how it makes you confront some heavy heavy shit. You don’t get that gut-kick visiting Barcelona or Beijing. The War, the holocaust, the Wall. There are some really moving memorials and museums completed in the last few years, in particular, the holocaust memorial and the Jewish History Museum (by Daniel Libeskind). I won’t describe them here, but by themselves they would make the trip to Berlin worth the trouble.

3.) Amsterdam. Has anyone else been there recently? Is it just me, or is it just a little bit boring? For all the ground-breaking permissiveness of this city (red-lights, coffee houses, legalized outdoor sex in their public park, etc.), it felt really sleepy. Central Amsterdam–outside of the red-light district–is a gorgeous and dreamy world of canals, bridges, and 17th Century houses and is clearly inhabited by very wealthy people. It’s like visiting those tiny brownstone streets in the West Village, except with much greater acreage and more beauty, and everyone rides bikes instead of cabs, but it still feels unwelcoming, like you don’t belong there. And for a city known for its nightlife, it closes down really early. We had a hard time finding a place for dinner after ten. And it was hard to get find a decent place to have a drink after eleven. It felt at times like a movie-set that gets abandoned by night–except for that occasional bike whisking by. Maybe Summer is a lot different than October. And with a pack of friends in the know, it’s probably a lot more fun. Did we miss something? Is there a good reason to visit again soon?

4.) Occupy Wall Street. A couple days ago I came across this link to Adbusters that proposed OWS finally take up a unifying cause: The Robin Hood Tax. Why hadn’t I heard of this until now? The Robin Hood Tax video (feat. Bill Nighy) below is from February. Of 2010. I should really check my facebook more often. Regardless, the video’s pretty clever. Could this idea really work? Bill Gates and Warren Buffet have signed on. And a lot of smart economists too. Could this be the unifying rallying cry that OWS could finally manifest? Maybe. Is this the time? Adbusters proposes October 29th. The Robin Hood Global March. Torches and pitchforks. And our TGW masks. If this is for real, my fellow travelers, let’s make ourselves heard! Anyone in?

Click here to view the embedded video.

Here’s a mix I made for the cocktail hour before a friend’s wedding a few years ago.

1. There is No Greater Love – Dinah Washington
2. Isn’t it Romantic? – Chet Baker
3. My Funny Valentine – Miles Davis Quintet
4. Pretty-Eyed Baby – Roy Eldridge & Dizzy Gillespie
5. Come Rain or Come Shine – James Booker
6. Too Marvelous for Words – Ella Fitzgerald
7. Today I Love Everybody – Johnny Hartman
8. In a Mellow Tone – Coleman Hawkins
9. You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To – Coleman Hawkins & Ben Webster
10. Lover Man – Charlie Parker
11. I Can’t Believe That You’re in Love with Me – Billie Holiday & Lester Young
12. Say It With a Kiss – Billie Holiday & Lester Young
13. The Way You Look Tonight – Cal Tjader
14. If I Were a Bell – Sarah Vaughan & Joe Williams
15. Little Girl – Joe Venuti & Eddie Lang
16. Did Anyone Ever Tell You? – Fats Waller
17. I Get a Kick Out of You – Dinah Washington
18. I Could Write a Book – Dinah Washington
19. Lookie Lookie Lookie (Here Comes Cookie) – Cleo Brown
20. Thou Swell – Carmen McRae
21. Night and Day – Django Reinhardt & Stephane Grappelli
22. I Can’t Give You Anything But Love – Louis Armstrong
23. I’ve Got the World on a String – Louis Armstrong

The grad student, we are told, is the kind of fucked up baby monkey who prefers the wire mesh mother, because at least she doesn’t lie to you. I knew all these things, and I was that sad, perverse little monkey who wanted to cling to the wire rather than feel betrayed.

Can I tell you what I found, though? The wire mesh mother taught me how to love.

I finished my education yesterday. I thought when I started my Ph.D. program that, if I survived, it would be after years of constant, clenching fear, watching my back while covering my gut in case of a sucker punch. What I’d been told about grad school was exactly what I’d always heard about life; everyone’s out to get you. If I got the chance, I’d have to eat the weak.

What I learned was that everything else about life is like that. Career is the wire mesh mother. Dating is the wire mesh mother. No one knows how to be kind, so they aren’t. If you offer someone your tender baby monkey paw, they’ll bite it off. But grad school?

When I showed up, I didn’t know how to be kind. I’m still not good at it. When you think everyone wants to eat you, you don’t know the first thing about how to be actively helpful without looking to strike a deal or make a scam. A professor welcomed us by saying, as he did to new students every year, We chose you for a reason. We want you here. We also chose the person sitting next to you. We want that person here too.

This guy who said this wasn’t a particularly nice person. He could be cutting and flippant, and he was super-cool and brilliant, so I assumed at first that it was some shit people say. It took me a while to figure out that what he meant was, Don’t disrespect us by being a crappy student, and don’t disrespect us by being crappy to each other. My job in school, I was finally learning, was to be smart and do good work, not just for myself, but for all the people who would give me support and help, and never to prevent someone else from doing well.

This was policy in my program. When someone else succeeds, even if you’re envious, or you hate them, or you think they don’t deserve it, you fucking smile and say congratulations, or you walk out of the building and vent to some other friend. When someone fails, even if you hate them, you offer them the help you can, or you go take a nap if you can’t.

Because I was a nasty little monkey—most of us were during our first year—I didn’t see the point. I made allies, and even some good friends, but I quickly formed a cool kids’ club with some other women who hated the same people I did. We’d roll our eyes about how dumb this one was, or how that one needs a new girlfriend. We couldn’t see then what we know years later, that this wrote a brilliant dissertation lickety-split and is a ridiculously talented writer, and that one is a sensitive, quiet man who would devote his life to a massive, slow-burning intellectual project while raising a baby. All we saw then were what we perceived to be edible weaker monkeys.

I had my first psychological crisis during my second year. I’d gotten some bad birth control that contributed to my certainty that I was losing my mind. I ended up in the emergency room of the psych ward with uncontrollable rage. I was afraid of myself, and crying at school about my stupid hateful life. And then a woman, a more advanced student who I know thought I was not cool, came up to me and said, “You need to be gentle with yourself. Just, be kind to yourself right now.”

I had never in my life heard anything like it. My people, we don’t do that. Did she mean some kind of Cathy comic strip scenario where I get frustrated trying on swimsuits and then eat a bunch of chocolate? Because that’s not really my… “No. I mean, today, just go for a walk. Get a pedicure. Sit under a tree. Something that isn’t about… this.”

She didn’t have to do that. She did, though, and it changed everything. My boyfriend at the time was always trying to get me to fix myself; I was always trying to fix myself. That day, I just tried to be myself for a few hours. I’m still learning how to just be myself.

And that, it turns out, is love. Or it’s the love I learned in grad school anyway. Everyone is constantly telling you you’re not rich enough, smart enough, pretty, strong, nice, dedicated, sane, excellent enough, and then someone reminds you that you’re good enough to spend a few hours sitting under a tree not hating yourself. That’s kindness.

I’m not naturally kind. I’m self-absorbed and paranoid. I still gravitate to the wire mesh mother, given the option. But because of the brilliant and kind people I met in grad school, I have something to say to the student weeping in my office, or the near-stranger in the hall who is freaking out. It’s something I said many times to other people in my program who were losing their shit, and something that has been said to me countless times by them when I’m struggling. Be gentle with yourself. Ask for the help you need. You belong here.