Kind words from a fave blog…
Great site, anyway, but especially the media!
And then there’s this writer, perhaps one of the wittiest creatures to walk between the stars…
Now, she has a beef with Roger Davis, it seems. And these things will happen.
Because my advice has been demanded by no one, I think I can help.
The Zen of the Rog is to Submit to the Rog. To Sumbit to the Rog means to Command the Rog.
My mother was around his age when he was restoring the Seelbach, the hotel where, I believe Tom and Daisy got married. I attach a recent photo that I took while blocking traffic.
I saw the Rog at this hotel after screening Flash and the Firecat, a dreadfully delightful vehicle for the Rog, and he was all too eager to be showered with praise for it. I loved the man because he had a great sense of humor which was seemingly irony-free… or was there so much irony that it was all an act of Kaufmanesque uber-irony? That’s for anthropologists to decide. But I do know, this…
My mother, a woman of great wit and justified ire, would rant about The Rog allegedly enjoying the pleasures of the Seelbach’s facilities to the point of serially commandeering the piano in one of the bars and serenading all of downtown Louisville with his dulcet tones.
This was and is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. And it was really funny because she devoted such passionate vitriol to the updates. So, what ups the ante of amusement even more is this thought…
Was The Rog in on the joke? The utter absurdity of this wanton abuse of being The Rog. It’s hilarious if that’s the case. The inner monologue would go something like this, “I may not have won the Hollywood lottery, but I do great VO’s, married an Angel, and restored an historic monument. So, you know what? Despite the fact that Don Cornelius refuses to return my calls, I’m gonna sing at this piano. Because it’s fun and I can.”
If not, then the Inner Monologue was probably something like, “These people are so lucky to be near me. I’m going to make their night… with a little help from Mr. Leslie Bricusse and Mr. Anthony Newley!”
Either way, it’s entertainment gold. And maybe it did make their night. Who’s to say?
So, here’s Roger. And after all of this, and having fun with, well… not so much his reputation for singing, but the endearing fury of my mother at the concept. And just his Hollywoodism. I dunno. I watch him, and I can’t help but like the guy. He goofed his way onto the scene, and watching it as I am, he seems like a nice fella. I buy his brand of integrity. I LOVE how he cranks it to eleven at the start of the courtroom sequences. And he seems to be a suitably sincere and pure match for Vicky.
I think he knows very well that he was lucky to be in some interesting places at some interesting times. And how did a beast like Papa Dan let him kid around? He must have had something.
So, when I met him when I was sixteen, I thought I’d out-smarm him by praising Flash and the Firecat as if I’d just seen a miraculously restored Magnificent Ambersons. And he seemed not to notice that I was being a tad sarcastic. He seemed really jazzed.
That made me feel… on the bad side of ambivalent. But maybe he needed to hear that. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
(At the same time, I spent some time with Jonathan Frid. Earlier that day, we’d watched his movie, Seizure, directed by Oliver Stone. I had no idea what to say to him, so I said that, um, I really liked it. “You liked that?” he incredulously demanded. Trying to make something out of it, and seeing as this was just months after Oliver Stone came from nowhere to win the Oscar for Platoon, I asked, “Um, so, uh, when you were working with Oliver Stone did you have any idea that he’d…”
“No!” Frid flatly declared… I’m sure to a question he’d heard far too many times.
Actors. Rough lives.)