Holbein has long been one of my favourite artists. Someone has thoughtfully put his complete paintings (however, it does not include his various sketches and drawings), on Youtube for all to see. Enjoy!
An article I wrote on the drawings and paintings of Lord and Lady Guildford can be seen here.
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Two views of the Universe
Much though I love the images sent back to Earth by the Voyager probes, the Pioneers, and similar NASA probes of the planets and their moons, allowing us mere mortals on Earth to see the splendour of these other worlds, I still have a passion for old astronomical and astrological ideas, maps, and thoughts. Below is a map of the heavens as envisioned by Robert Fludd. It is impossible not to be drawn in, and feel that although science has furnished us with many answers, there is still much which remains unanswered.
Fludd's model for the transformation and spiraling descent of spirit into matter, in his view of the universe as having been constructed in concentric, separate spheres, with the earth still very much in the centre. Copernicus and Galileo be damned !!
 |
| Utriusque Cosmi Maioris Scilicet Et Minoris Metaphysica Atque Technica Historia |
Body and Soul
A recurrent motif that used to regularly feature as part of my dreams resurfaced from the Subconscious and back into the Conscious as I was walking down the street the other day on a pleasant balmy Saturday morning on the way to the bus stop to head into town (a frequent Saturday ritual for me). Between my late adolescence (troubled years!) and my mid to late twenties, I found myself able, during my dreams to be able to separate my body from my soul. This imagery and attribute still occasionally features in my dreams, however it is more of a guest appearance to one which I am habitually allowed to revisit.
Generally, such an occurrence would take place if I was meant to be in two places at once, or i had made a promise to do one thing but had been made or encouraged to do another. In order to do both things, I found myself able to divide myself up into two separate entities, both aesthetically identical however one of which was my body and one of which was my soul. The body side of my ego retained all its human attributes and possessed neither special powers nor any apparent and evident differences which separated ‘me’ from any other person; except I would be bereft of most of my feelings, and was emotionally/physically numb... I could talk and communicate but I would be subdued, removed. “A shadow of myself” yet without a shadow, so to speak. By contrast my soul could fly, and though I could be seen, this side to me was more like a ghost. I was also more in touch with my feelings within my soul, and it was my soul I would end on my more emotionally charged assignments, seeing loved ones, doing tasks and duties that required feeling rather than simply automated attendance, or just my presence. At the end of the day, body and soul would rejoin, able to share in experience and memories, and be as one again.
These dreams became less and less frequent; indeed all my dreams followed a similar fate, when my doctor put me on strong medication in an attempt to combat a severe bout of depression that plagued me during this time. After attempt with two particular types of anti depressant, neither of which worked, my doctor placed me on Venlafaxine. Initially he started with 75mg a day, then 150mg, and finally I was on 225mg a day to combat the deep melancholic depression that was affecting me in such a pronounced manner. To their credit the pills certainly worked, I no longer felt such deep Depression, instead I felt a degree of neutral ambiguity to my existence, and to that of the world around me. However, there were side effects to taking these pills, none of which really seemed to matter as I wandered through this haze like existence; these included a complete loss of sex drive, an extreme change in my metabolism and when sleeping, an infrequency in dreaming therefore my Unconscious never seemed to surface and my thought patterns were limited.
At the time however, the worst side effect was the change in metabolism. My waist had previously been a mere 29, which admittedly was a complete nightmare for buying jeans and only Armani jeans seemed to suit my then-build and slender frame. My waist went up and up, and finally I ended up with my waist being somewhere between 34 and 35, with a rather pronounced Akhenaten belly (for the first time ever) and a rather fat arse. I remember the weekend I saw the light and what had happened to me, in that I was sitting on the common and it was pointed out that I had become rather podgy to say the least. I must confess I initially dismissed this statement as it was being pointed out by someone who sees an inch of body fat as being overweight. It was only the following day when going into central London and not being able to fit into a pair of rather nice shorts (and being told I needed size 36) that it dawned on me what had happened to me.
So over a week I weaned myself off these pills. Upon reflection I should have done it more gradually, but, other than the last night where I had rather vivid dreams once again, and I had the equivalent of ten nights’ sleep, I managed to do it. I say ten night sleep, because my body clock kept on waking me up every hour, on the hour, and I would awaken, refreshed, ready for the day and then realise it was only 3am, then 4am, etc. Since those days, I have lost a lot of weight, my waist is back to 30-31 and I have most of my sex drive back. There have been times when I thought I might be better going back on anti-depressants over the years but I like being in touch with myself, my feelings, and I have no desire to balloon in weight once again and become rather podgy and rotund once more.
However the greatest loss is one that cannot easily be explained. After this time I felt that at some point or another, somehow, my body had become separated from my soul and somehow the two had never quite become conjoined again and that I had lost some of my soul along the way. Admittedly a lot has happened since then, not least failed relationships and disillusionment at myself, my path, and to an extent others, so that could have affected things in the subconscious as well. But somehow I still feel numb, lost, disheartened, and like I have lost some of who I am and that my ka is out there in the void, trying to find its way home.
For now, I feel like the Traveller in Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners. Both in body and in soul, with my soul representative of the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door, and the seemingly empty house, representative of my body. The attempts to enter, or at the very least to illicit a response, but though one senses a presence, other than the sound of the bird flying out of the turret, there is nothing. Nothing other than a sense, a feeling... I first heard this wonderful poem when I was entering my teenage years, and the words have resonated through my mind ever since. The closing stanza of the poem is as enigmatic as the one with which it opens, leaving it’s reader none the wiser to the Traveller and the reason for his coming to the remote house. T.S. Eliot, in his poem to Walter de la Mare, added to this sense of mystery in his words below:-
When the nocturnal traveller can arouse
No sleeper by his call; or when by chance
An empty face peers from an empty house;
By whom, and by what means, was this designed?
The whispered incarnation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?
 |
| The Lovecraft-esque inscription in Paura nella città dei morti viventi. |
Generally, such an occurrence would take place if I was meant to be in two places at once, or i had made a promise to do one thing but had been made or encouraged to do another. In order to do both things, I found myself able to divide myself up into two separate entities, both aesthetically identical however one of which was my body and one of which was my soul. The body side of my ego retained all its human attributes and possessed neither special powers nor any apparent and evident differences which separated ‘me’ from any other person; except I would be bereft of most of my feelings, and was emotionally/physically numb... I could talk and communicate but I would be subdued, removed. “A shadow of myself” yet without a shadow, so to speak. By contrast my soul could fly, and though I could be seen, this side to me was more like a ghost. I was also more in touch with my feelings within my soul, and it was my soul I would end on my more emotionally charged assignments, seeing loved ones, doing tasks and duties that required feeling rather than simply automated attendance, or just my presence. At the end of the day, body and soul would rejoin, able to share in experience and memories, and be as one again.
These dreams became less and less frequent; indeed all my dreams followed a similar fate, when my doctor put me on strong medication in an attempt to combat a severe bout of depression that plagued me during this time. After attempt with two particular types of anti depressant, neither of which worked, my doctor placed me on Venlafaxine. Initially he started with 75mg a day, then 150mg, and finally I was on 225mg a day to combat the deep melancholic depression that was affecting me in such a pronounced manner. To their credit the pills certainly worked, I no longer felt such deep Depression, instead I felt a degree of neutral ambiguity to my existence, and to that of the world around me. However, there were side effects to taking these pills, none of which really seemed to matter as I wandered through this haze like existence; these included a complete loss of sex drive, an extreme change in my metabolism and when sleeping, an infrequency in dreaming therefore my Unconscious never seemed to surface and my thought patterns were limited.
At the time however, the worst side effect was the change in metabolism. My waist had previously been a mere 29, which admittedly was a complete nightmare for buying jeans and only Armani jeans seemed to suit my then-build and slender frame. My waist went up and up, and finally I ended up with my waist being somewhere between 34 and 35, with a rather pronounced Akhenaten belly (for the first time ever) and a rather fat arse. I remember the weekend I saw the light and what had happened to me, in that I was sitting on the common and it was pointed out that I had become rather podgy to say the least. I must confess I initially dismissed this statement as it was being pointed out by someone who sees an inch of body fat as being overweight. It was only the following day when going into central London and not being able to fit into a pair of rather nice shorts (and being told I needed size 36) that it dawned on me what had happened to me.
 |
| Venlafaxine |
So over a week I weaned myself off these pills. Upon reflection I should have done it more gradually, but, other than the last night where I had rather vivid dreams once again, and I had the equivalent of ten nights’ sleep, I managed to do it. I say ten night sleep, because my body clock kept on waking me up every hour, on the hour, and I would awaken, refreshed, ready for the day and then realise it was only 3am, then 4am, etc. Since those days, I have lost a lot of weight, my waist is back to 30-31 and I have most of my sex drive back. There have been times when I thought I might be better going back on anti-depressants over the years but I like being in touch with myself, my feelings, and I have no desire to balloon in weight once again and become rather podgy and rotund once more.
However the greatest loss is one that cannot easily be explained. After this time I felt that at some point or another, somehow, my body had become separated from my soul and somehow the two had never quite become conjoined again and that I had lost some of my soul along the way. Admittedly a lot has happened since then, not least failed relationships and disillusionment at myself, my path, and to an extent others, so that could have affected things in the subconscious as well. But somehow I still feel numb, lost, disheartened, and like I have lost some of who I am and that my ka is out there in the void, trying to find its way home.
For now, I feel like the Traveller in Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners. Both in body and in soul, with my soul representative of the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door, and the seemingly empty house, representative of my body. The attempts to enter, or at the very least to illicit a response, but though one senses a presence, other than the sound of the bird flying out of the turret, there is nothing. Nothing other than a sense, a feeling... I first heard this wonderful poem when I was entering my teenage years, and the words have resonated through my mind ever since. The closing stanza of the poem is as enigmatic as the one with which it opens, leaving it’s reader none the wiser to the Traveller and the reason for his coming to the remote house. T.S. Eliot, in his poem to Walter de la Mare, added to this sense of mystery in his words below:-
When the nocturnal traveller can arouse
No sleeper by his call; or when by chance
An empty face peers from an empty house;
By whom, and by what means, was this designed?
The whispered incarnation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?
Monday, 9 July 2012
Hélène Martin
The same poem was later covered by Etienne Daho (who sang it, when I was at the Olympia in Paris; July 2008) and Raphaël on his live DVD. Yet this rendition of the poem by Jean Genet as sung by Hélène Martin, remains stark, minimal and effective, even now.
St. Jerome and the Beast
In reading about dreams, it always surprises me how many people have dreams which play out in monochrome rather than colour. For as long as I can recall mine have always appeared to me in bright vivid saturated colours; the only variation over the passage of time has been the language in which they play themselves out in which I, and other individuals (when there are other players), converse, communicate and interact. My Unconscious will generally tend to acclimatise to the location in which I find myself. For example I recall that when I used to make my frequent trips to Rome about ten years ago that Within a short passage of time, even though I was speaking in English to my American ex-business partner, that subconsciously and consciously I would immerse myself in thinking in Italian as best I could to prepare myself for the people we would invariably be meeting. This would happen from the offset, after having met Mike at Heathrow Airport, who having flown on the "red eye" from Boston to London, we would head onward to Rome. I would make banal conversation in Italian with the taxi driver from the airport into central Rome (I remember with great fondness those taxi rides and each time mid morning Rome would seem enchanting and magical) whilst Mike sat there and generally would doze to catch up on the lack of sleep he had experienced the night before during the long haul flight. As an additional note, I also enjoyed telling the touting illegal taxi drivers at the airport to get lost, as they had believed us naïve and foolish tourists without the slightest comprehension of Rome and the costings of a taxi into the centre. A sudden leap from 30 € to 70 € just boggled the belief and imagination.
In addition, where it seems most (but by no means all) individuals have dreams which, which when they remember them, tend to be more along the lines of traveling to far away places, of a sexual conquest or desire, or to winning a large cash prize, the descriptions of such dreams and events give rise to the belief that the dream itself is rather bland and shot like a rather mundane episode of a daytime soap opera. My mind will simply not allow me to have dreams of that nature. To cite a few cultural references in respect to my dreams, my mind prefers to conjure up an image narrative usually with a number of allegorical motifs as would be directed by the likes of Greenaway or Fellini, with costumes and mood mirroring the paintings of Rogier van der Weyden or Hans Memling, and where protagonists will converse in Latin, or French, or Italian, or Early Modern English. Occasionally there are other sounds and noises as well in these dreams such as echoing bells, chant or simply the sound of wind or rain, all depending on the context.
At present, however, my traveling is minimal, regrettably, yet this seems to have allowed my unconscious to take its own flights of fantasy. I suppose my mind is restless and my dreams and thoughts tend to migrate into other languages in any case. For, at present, I no longer have the external stimulus to unleash these other languages into my brain and mind, and by extension dreams.
One of my most recent dreams placed me in a sixteenth century time frame (yet it appeared to be the present, rather than the past). I was in a great domed hall, at first, with the only sound I could hear in the hall being the sound of Psalms being sung in the Greek Orthodox tradition. Please note this sound was not like that of say, Byzantine masses or the omnipresent Mass of St. John Chrysostom, or as simple plainchant or sarum chant. The former sound appears to be Western conception of how Greek orthodox masses should sound based upon track 5 of their new age "Moods" or "Chill Out" CDs. Albums such as these were at one point hugely alongside ones selling pan pipe renditions of popular songs and soundtracks (cue: "You Take My Breath Away" on the pipes.) No, the melody and structure of the chants that resonated in my mind were far more modern, yet mirroring table songs that had been sung for many decades, nay, centuries before.
The domed room was candle lit, yet bright. Warm yet stuffy. Outside, all was dark, and the wind blowing. The moment, timeless, contemporary yet harking to some "other" time. The air heavy and infused with a heavy fragrance of incense; a scent that mirrored Ouarzazate by Comme des Garçons, mingled with that of a Romanian monastery suffused with a slight peppery top-note to invigorate and alert the nostrils. In the centre stood a high priest, dressed in bright red cardinal robes with a long beard, and looking like Saint Jerome. He stood there, muttering, mumbling, his voice low yet his expression and mannerisms animated. He decided to deliver his diatribe in a manner mirroring the patristic writings, but rather than an angry rant against the likes of Marcion, or Valentinus, or Basilides, or heretics of a similar ilk; he addressed more relevant and personal issues, for those who would listen. He spoke in English, and as his voice lifted, the candles which surrounded him shot flames upwards like flame throwers, as if to lend a sense of theatre to his gestures, his statements. For the few who listened, his words didn't seem to be being followed attentively nor appreciated - despite the passion and enthusiasm in which he spoke and addressed his limited congregation. His words, from what I can recall, were on the lines of those below.
"Inasmuch, those men who set the truth aside, who speak as does the reviled hierophant, with his lying words and who shall take shallow harlots as his consorts, and by the cunning of their conjoined craft, shall cause many to believe the empty and shallow promise of their words. Her deception through apparent beauty, and his through deception. Through such deceptions, they shall lead many away from their true path and by the strength of their conviction and earnest in their trust, be fooled, as the naïve child led astray by a corrupt teacher. Oracles and false promises shall he make, to those lost in the desert without direction. His promises, lies, to all who listen but the very few.
The harlot shall be his consort, his accomplice and his bride, as surely as Deception needs Lies, does Man need Water so to live. This tawdry Harlot shall ask that he inflict wounds upon her fair flesh, flesh for all men to see, and despite such pleasured suffering, she will allow their deception to breed, as surely as a babe would slumber in her womb. Together they shall create further perdition, and other vile issue shall issue forth from these miscreants; Fraud, Theft, Deception to name but a few. Yet he does have no true desire of her, she is simply a vessel to serve his perverse desires and mask his losses. For he will seek other consorts of beauty and she will lay the path for others, some innocent, some accomplices, to his heinous deception.
The Beast shall be marked, and he does brag such falsehoods of a musical ability, or artistic talent, or of sexual prowess, and more beside. His cunning and his shrewdness outshine his intelligence; the lies outnumber the truths. He has the appearance of a vagabond, yet even the wise shall be deceived. His arms marked with stars, and amidst them the portrait of a clairvoyant - a vile sorceress - yet such visions are hidden beneath a thick coating of hair which does cover his entire body, from his eyebrows to his toes. Despite such appearances, many shall still be fooled in their minds and hearts, their limbs and souls stained. And by the ninth hour his deception shall leave those vulnerable unclothed, suffering, destitute, broken, bereft of belongings, and wary of all others.
Such is the tale that the true shall speak, and seek retribution and justice for his vile deception. Yet ,who shall hear their cry? The Law be both blind and deaf, unwilling and unable to punish the perpetrator of such deceptions and evil. He shall go unpunished, and shall prosper in hand and raise up a new belief from the Eternal Sea...."
Through the chamber, the words boomed, and soon thereafter started to spin. And I had to flee, I felt giddy, disorientated, sick. Yet, outside this domed building, in the dark, were four winged lions, like lamassu; growling and probably four times larger than life size, not allowing me to flee into the open landscape. However, if I returned to the sanctuary of the the domed room, and although one felt safe therein, almost comforted, in a womb-like environment, at the centre of all this was the recurrent burr of words I didn't want to know, to hear, to understand, and from which there was no escape...
In addition, where it seems most (but by no means all) individuals have dreams which, which when they remember them, tend to be more along the lines of traveling to far away places, of a sexual conquest or desire, or to winning a large cash prize, the descriptions of such dreams and events give rise to the belief that the dream itself is rather bland and shot like a rather mundane episode of a daytime soap opera. My mind will simply not allow me to have dreams of that nature. To cite a few cultural references in respect to my dreams, my mind prefers to conjure up an image narrative usually with a number of allegorical motifs as would be directed by the likes of Greenaway or Fellini, with costumes and mood mirroring the paintings of Rogier van der Weyden or Hans Memling, and where protagonists will converse in Latin, or French, or Italian, or Early Modern English. Occasionally there are other sounds and noises as well in these dreams such as echoing bells, chant or simply the sound of wind or rain, all depending on the context.
At present, however, my traveling is minimal, regrettably, yet this seems to have allowed my unconscious to take its own flights of fantasy. I suppose my mind is restless and my dreams and thoughts tend to migrate into other languages in any case. For, at present, I no longer have the external stimulus to unleash these other languages into my brain and mind, and by extension dreams.
One of my most recent dreams placed me in a sixteenth century time frame (yet it appeared to be the present, rather than the past). I was in a great domed hall, at first, with the only sound I could hear in the hall being the sound of Psalms being sung in the Greek Orthodox tradition. Please note this sound was not like that of say, Byzantine masses or the omnipresent Mass of St. John Chrysostom, or as simple plainchant or sarum chant. The former sound appears to be Western conception of how Greek orthodox masses should sound based upon track 5 of their new age "Moods" or "Chill Out" CDs. Albums such as these were at one point hugely alongside ones selling pan pipe renditions of popular songs and soundtracks (cue: "You Take My Breath Away" on the pipes.) No, the melody and structure of the chants that resonated in my mind were far more modern, yet mirroring table songs that had been sung for many decades, nay, centuries before.
The domed room was candle lit, yet bright. Warm yet stuffy. Outside, all was dark, and the wind blowing. The moment, timeless, contemporary yet harking to some "other" time. The air heavy and infused with a heavy fragrance of incense; a scent that mirrored Ouarzazate by Comme des Garçons, mingled with that of a Romanian monastery suffused with a slight peppery top-note to invigorate and alert the nostrils. In the centre stood a high priest, dressed in bright red cardinal robes with a long beard, and looking like Saint Jerome. He stood there, muttering, mumbling, his voice low yet his expression and mannerisms animated. He decided to deliver his diatribe in a manner mirroring the patristic writings, but rather than an angry rant against the likes of Marcion, or Valentinus, or Basilides, or heretics of a similar ilk; he addressed more relevant and personal issues, for those who would listen. He spoke in English, and as his voice lifted, the candles which surrounded him shot flames upwards like flame throwers, as if to lend a sense of theatre to his gestures, his statements. For the few who listened, his words didn't seem to be being followed attentively nor appreciated - despite the passion and enthusiasm in which he spoke and addressed his limited congregation. His words, from what I can recall, were on the lines of those below.
 |
The harlot shall be his consort, his accomplice and his bride, as surely as Deception needs Lies, does Man need Water so to live. This tawdry Harlot shall ask that he inflict wounds upon her fair flesh, flesh for all men to see, and despite such pleasured suffering, she will allow their deception to breed, as surely as a babe would slumber in her womb. Together they shall create further perdition, and other vile issue shall issue forth from these miscreants; Fraud, Theft, Deception to name but a few. Yet he does have no true desire of her, she is simply a vessel to serve his perverse desires and mask his losses. For he will seek other consorts of beauty and she will lay the path for others, some innocent, some accomplices, to his heinous deception.
The Beast shall be marked, and he does brag such falsehoods of a musical ability, or artistic talent, or of sexual prowess, and more beside. His cunning and his shrewdness outshine his intelligence; the lies outnumber the truths. He has the appearance of a vagabond, yet even the wise shall be deceived. His arms marked with stars, and amidst them the portrait of a clairvoyant - a vile sorceress - yet such visions are hidden beneath a thick coating of hair which does cover his entire body, from his eyebrows to his toes. Despite such appearances, many shall still be fooled in their minds and hearts, their limbs and souls stained. And by the ninth hour his deception shall leave those vulnerable unclothed, suffering, destitute, broken, bereft of belongings, and wary of all others.
Such is the tale that the true shall speak, and seek retribution and justice for his vile deception. Yet ,who shall hear their cry? The Law be both blind and deaf, unwilling and unable to punish the perpetrator of such deceptions and evil. He shall go unpunished, and shall prosper in hand and raise up a new belief from the Eternal Sea...."
Through the chamber, the words boomed, and soon thereafter started to spin. And I had to flee, I felt giddy, disorientated, sick. Yet, outside this domed building, in the dark, were four winged lions, like lamassu; growling and probably four times larger than life size, not allowing me to flee into the open landscape. However, if I returned to the sanctuary of the the domed room, and although one felt safe therein, almost comforted, in a womb-like environment, at the centre of all this was the recurrent burr of words I didn't want to know, to hear, to understand, and from which there was no escape...
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Margaret Lee
Just over a decade ago, when I was carrying out research for an abandoned book project entitled "Paura: Lucio Fulci Remembered" (which ultimately morphed itself into a DVD released by my former business partner, Mike), I made an attempt not just to find individuals who had worked with Lucio Fulci on his horror films (despite the title "Paura", which means "fear" in Italian) but also on his thrillers, comedies and musicals. During that time, and thanks to various online resources as well as the help of various agents in Rome and Paris together with the Rome/Italian telephone guide, I managed to locate and speak a number of individuals, some of who questioned my sanity as to why on Earth I was seeking to discuss a director such as Lucio Fulci (numerous ‘Why Lucio?’ and ‘Lucio? Perché Lucio?’ were the responses I garnered. Despite a lengthy career that spanned, as a director, from 1957 to 1991; most of the individuals I located and spoke to considered Fulci to be at best a B-movie director and in certain cases, well below in some cases even below that (!)...
Over the passage of time, I managed to speak to locate and speak to a number of people in Europe, and the United States. When they were now located in the United States, or on the other side of the ocean, I left the honours, and the phone bill to Mike. One such individual was Tisa Farrow, younger sister of Mia, whom I managed to locate with a little detective work, and the help of her late brother, Patrick, a sculptor from Vermont. Patrick I managed to ‘uncover’ from a death notice for the matriarch of the Farrow family, viz. Maureen O'Sullivan. However, there was one Stateside find I made, which delighted me above all others, and she is the subject of this article; a beautiful British actress by the name of Margaret Lee, more on which below.
Whilst attempting to track down and locate these people I managed to encounter and meet some fascinating souls, some extraordinary individuals, and admittedly a couple of true divas, but equally so some wonderful people. I feel blessed, as following our meeting, in certain instances I managed to find a connection with the people I met, and was fortunate enough to befriend in the process, in certain cases a friendship which has lasted to this day. Whilst making my calls, in certain cases, and in particular some of the actresses, there was a degree of hesitance on their part, nervousness and/or even reluctance to talk or 'concern' over being 'found'. Outside of the actresses who worked for Fulci, I uncovered a number of other (mostly) actresses who had fascinated me over the years. Since 1998, I had located and spoken to some elusive actresses (such as Brigitte Skay, Flavia Fabiani, and Lea Lander). I had contacted them mainly for another project, a biography of Mario Bava, by the American writer Tim Lucas. The book, by the time I offered help, had already been long in the making and was/is entitled All the Colors of the Dark. It remains to this day the definitive work on Bava, the ne plus ultra, and doubtless shall never be surpassed for all the information and hard work therein. In my quest for people for Paura, it must be said that most all of the people I contacted, were delighted and delightful, happy to talk and were more than willing to meet. Some did seem highly sceptical. However as I have said, a good number turned out to be genuine, kindly gracious, friendly from the off, and our friendship grew and flourished so much so I feel I could consider them to be friends to this day.
Returning to the subject, British actress, Margaret Lee, had long been a fascinating and enigmatic figure for both myself and a fellow film enthusiast, Julian. At the time of my research Julian worked for the British Film Institute in the research and filmographic unit. I felt the need to locate Margaret as she was also relevant in terms of the “Paura” project inasmuch that she had made three films for Lucio Fulci. My research on Lee had not turned up much really, and what I could find was patchy to say the least. Very little appeared to have been reported, even in the Italian press about her origins other than she was English, and there was a lot of speculation and rumour surrounding her and her celebrity lifestyle. However in respect of actual facts, a film dictionary proclaimed that her real name was Margaret Mellors-Box, and she had been born in c.1939 in London. Another (German) source said she had been born in Manchester in 1940.
However, in one of the interviews in an Italian magazine (Tempo I think), she told her interviewer that her birth name hasn't been Lee at all, but that in fact was a short and ugly name, but refused to disclose it. On a press sheet for a film (‘Our Man in Marrakesh’ I believe) , in the biographical information, I read that Margaret had been born on August 4 (no year given) and was married to a film producer, Gino Malerba, and that together they had a son named Roberto. Julian used his resources at the British Film Institute to research all the Margarets born on August 4 between 1938 and 1942 in the UK, however, such labours bore no concrete fruit and nothing conclusive came up.
Research on the Internet proved equally fruitless aside from links to films and the usual nonsense links offering to see Margaret Lee naked. This was the case with every actress one researched at the time, I swear there were promises to see Margaret Rutherford, or Thora Hird naked. Thankfully my curiosity never got the better of me. In the midst of my searches however, on a forum I found a request from one of her childhood friends named Lorraine, who had been to school with Margaret in the late 1950's in Greenwich. Lorraine had been trying to track her down after seeing one of her films on television. Since living in London, Lorraine had immigrated to Canada in the late fifties. I contacted Lorraine with the hope of getting some dates or information. Soon after writing, Lorraine kindly responded to my message, despite having posted the request in 1998. She wrote telling me how she and Margaret had been good friends at school, and how as teenagers they had chased a young Mick Jagger on the trains. Lorraine told me that Margaret's surname at the time had been "Box", and that her nickname had been "Boxy". I tried contacting the Italia Conti drama school which the press sheet advised me that Lee/Box had attended in her youth, but again this was to no avail and they had no information of any use, nor photographs. Contacting the British actors union Equity again was pointless, nothing could be found on their records.
So I decided to follow another trail, and to see if I could find anything of her son, Roberto. I made an educated guess that generally if father and mother work in film, that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. I discovered that there was indeed a "Roberto Malerba" who was (and still is) active in film productions; including various movies directed by Ridley Scott, so I made an educated guess he possibly lived in either the USA or in Italy. My hunch proved correct and I found an address for him in Los Angeles. After summing up the courage, I rang the number I had found. Roberto himself was not available when I called. However, I spoke to his wife Paula, who confirmed that it was the Roberto Malerba I was seeking and yes, he was Margaret's son. I explained to Paula that I was hoping to contact Margaret rather than Roberto, and was told that she too was now living in California. Paula also kindly gave me an email address, a telephone number and an address to write to her. I felt I had struck gold, I was on cloud nine! I called Julian at the BFI, advising him that la Lee had been found by yours truly. After hanging up the phone, I promptly despatched an email to the long elusive Margaret Lee.
To my pleasure and delight, she responded a few days later. In her short friendly response, she appeared to be most delighted to hear from me and most curious as to me and my projects. In replying, I confess, my first questions admittedly (at risk of sounding un-gentlemanly) were to ask her real name (Margaret Gwendolyn Box), and date (4th, August 1943) and place (Wolverhampton) of birth, so as resolve the questions that had been perplexing me for years. To which, thankfully, Margaret responded to without hesitation. A couple of years later, I found these facts reproduced in an excellent book on a number of the starlets of the 1960s. I had the pleasure to meet the author, Tom Lisanti, whilst in New York and confirmed them as being true as I was in fact in touch, at that point, with Margaret and probably, indirectly, where Tom had learned these biographical details.
After having exchanged a few emails (or "e-letters") as Margaret charmingly named my correspondence, she agreed to answer some questions and talked about her life both as an actress but also away from the limelight of Rome. Early on, I told her that one of my friends had interviewed Harry Towers (a producer) as Margaret said she would very much like to know what had happened to Towers' wife, the Austrian actress Maria Rohm. Margaret described Maria as being an old friend, and the two women had appeared in various films together in the late sixties. After Towers' initial hesitation to divulge any contact details for Maria, I was contacted out of the blue, and given Maria's contact details to hand on to Margaret.
As time passed, Margaret and I exchanged an email every few weeks and eventually, whilst I was in California working on a number of interviews in 2002, I plucked up courage and called her for the first time. Admittedly I entertained a school boy's hope that we could meet whilst I was there, but that was not to be as Margaret was busy with a local theatre project, however Margaret requested that we stay in contact and continue to exchange "e-letters". Having broken the ice with speaking on the telephone, and owing to the time difference and at an agreed time, we would also speak on the phone from time to time. Over time and during our conversations, Margaret talked some more about her life. She opened up and was more frank. We also spoke on subjects more personal than just her movie career. Margaret spoke of her hopes for the future, how she missed Europe, and some of her issues in California, to which I listened and tried my best to listen and be supportive from afar. Over the years, Margaret recorded some tapes of sonnets and poems as gifts for my birthday or for Christmas. She also designed some astrological birth charts for me (I still have them), and we remained in contact until Christmas 2005. I received a card from Margaret that year but after that I sadly never heard from her again.
Piecing together Margaret Lee’s life is like having a 500 piece jigsaw in which one only has about 120 of the pieces. By my own admission, it is frustrating when you actually know the person and sometimes, when you don’t want to risk damaging the trust of the person you genuinely like, yet you seek information and the truth. It makes it all the more difficult when you have sometimes heard bad things, tales involving various scandals as well as quite probably malicious gossip. Gossip which isn’t true and doesn’t represent the facts. Rumours abounded in the 1980s as to why Margaret had vanished in the 1970s when she returned to England to raise her second son away from the bright lights of Rome. From time to time, glossy gossip supplements and magazines still surface on Ebay or elsewhere, and though they provoke more questions, I never felt comfortable nor my place to ask such questions of my friend. To me, it was difficult, the researcher in me was intrigued yet at the same time, I was honoured that Margaret could talk to me and felt at sufficient ease to talk about the here and now, not just about her past, not just the movies she made, but seemed to respect me as a person and not just as a fan, a writer, a journalist. Some of what Margaret told me in confidence I wouldn’t want to share and have respected that ever since. It is a difficult situation, but ultimately, one day, I hope to hear from Margaret again, and that she is well, and maybe one day I will find out if there was any truth in what was claimed, but if I don’t ever know the whole truth there is part of me doesn’t care. It is a true dilemma to find myself in. A quest to find the truth, yet respecting and valuing friendships and trust.
Over the years since then, I have considered trying to contact Margaret once more, but I confess that I do so with trepidation , as I feel really rather nervous in doing so once again. I did speak to her younger son, Damian, in 2007, on the phone when he was living in Rome. He came across as being extremely affable and a most friendly fellow on the phone and we planned on meeting for a drink, but again, that has yet to happen. Never say never! I think he was rather surprised when I said that I was around his age (I believe he is about 6 months older than me), but advised me that his mother was well and still in California. Sometimes I think of contacting him through Facebook to ask after his mother and have considered making my introductions once again, yet somehow I always lose my nerve at the last minute as I start to hesitate, and then I hesitate some more and put it off.
I do truly hope she is well and happy, and I do truly miss our lively, friendly correspondence. I do think of her from time to time, and worry about her and her welfare. I liked talking to her and appreciated and enjoyed the friendship we had started to cultivate on the lines of those I had made previously whom I had met in person. For me, the best thing to come out of those days creating DVD extras/interviews/documentaries, call them what you will, has been the lasting friendships I have enjoyed as a result.
Before she vanished once again, Margaret was kind enough to send me an up to date photograph of her as I confess that I was intrigued to see how she looked after the two decades (now nearly three) since she had last been seen on screen. I had sent her a photograph so she could see the face of the person with whom she was engaging in so much correspondence with. To which, she kindly sent me a photograph of herself, albeit in stage makeup, when she had played the Yama in a production of the Bhagavad Gita, in a small local theatrical production near where she lived. Looking at the photograph, and although she is older, Margaret continues to retain her allure, and beauty, and in my eyes, is very much recognizable from the glory days in her youth as a beautiful starlet and actress, both of cinema and television.
Over the passage of time, I managed to speak to locate and speak to a number of people in Europe, and the United States. When they were now located in the United States, or on the other side of the ocean, I left the honours, and the phone bill to Mike. One such individual was Tisa Farrow, younger sister of Mia, whom I managed to locate with a little detective work, and the help of her late brother, Patrick, a sculptor from Vermont. Patrick I managed to ‘uncover’ from a death notice for the matriarch of the Farrow family, viz. Maureen O'Sullivan. However, there was one Stateside find I made, which delighted me above all others, and she is the subject of this article; a beautiful British actress by the name of Margaret Lee, more on which below.
Whilst attempting to track down and locate these people I managed to encounter and meet some fascinating souls, some extraordinary individuals, and admittedly a couple of true divas, but equally so some wonderful people. I feel blessed, as following our meeting, in certain instances I managed to find a connection with the people I met, and was fortunate enough to befriend in the process, in certain cases a friendship which has lasted to this day. Whilst making my calls, in certain cases, and in particular some of the actresses, there was a degree of hesitance on their part, nervousness and/or even reluctance to talk or 'concern' over being 'found'. Outside of the actresses who worked for Fulci, I uncovered a number of other (mostly) actresses who had fascinated me over the years. Since 1998, I had located and spoken to some elusive actresses (such as Brigitte Skay, Flavia Fabiani, and Lea Lander). I had contacted them mainly for another project, a biography of Mario Bava, by the American writer Tim Lucas. The book, by the time I offered help, had already been long in the making and was/is entitled All the Colors of the Dark. It remains to this day the definitive work on Bava, the ne plus ultra, and doubtless shall never be surpassed for all the information and hard work therein. In my quest for people for Paura, it must be said that most all of the people I contacted, were delighted and delightful, happy to talk and were more than willing to meet. Some did seem highly sceptical. However as I have said, a good number turned out to be genuine, kindly gracious, friendly from the off, and our friendship grew and flourished so much so I feel I could consider them to be friends to this day.
Returning to the subject, British actress, Margaret Lee, had long been a fascinating and enigmatic figure for both myself and a fellow film enthusiast, Julian. At the time of my research Julian worked for the British Film Institute in the research and filmographic unit. I felt the need to locate Margaret as she was also relevant in terms of the “Paura” project inasmuch that she had made three films for Lucio Fulci. My research on Lee had not turned up much really, and what I could find was patchy to say the least. Very little appeared to have been reported, even in the Italian press about her origins other than she was English, and there was a lot of speculation and rumour surrounding her and her celebrity lifestyle. However in respect of actual facts, a film dictionary proclaimed that her real name was Margaret Mellors-Box, and she had been born in c.1939 in London. Another (German) source said she had been born in Manchester in 1940.
However, in one of the interviews in an Italian magazine (Tempo I think), she told her interviewer that her birth name hasn't been Lee at all, but that in fact was a short and ugly name, but refused to disclose it. On a press sheet for a film (‘Our Man in Marrakesh’ I believe) , in the biographical information, I read that Margaret had been born on August 4 (no year given) and was married to a film producer, Gino Malerba, and that together they had a son named Roberto. Julian used his resources at the British Film Institute to research all the Margarets born on August 4 between 1938 and 1942 in the UK, however, such labours bore no concrete fruit and nothing conclusive came up.
Research on the Internet proved equally fruitless aside from links to films and the usual nonsense links offering to see Margaret Lee naked. This was the case with every actress one researched at the time, I swear there were promises to see Margaret Rutherford, or Thora Hird naked. Thankfully my curiosity never got the better of me. In the midst of my searches however, on a forum I found a request from one of her childhood friends named Lorraine, who had been to school with Margaret in the late 1950's in Greenwich. Lorraine had been trying to track her down after seeing one of her films on television. Since living in London, Lorraine had immigrated to Canada in the late fifties. I contacted Lorraine with the hope of getting some dates or information. Soon after writing, Lorraine kindly responded to my message, despite having posted the request in 1998. She wrote telling me how she and Margaret had been good friends at school, and how as teenagers they had chased a young Mick Jagger on the trains. Lorraine told me that Margaret's surname at the time had been "Box", and that her nickname had been "Boxy". I tried contacting the Italia Conti drama school which the press sheet advised me that Lee/Box had attended in her youth, but again this was to no avail and they had no information of any use, nor photographs. Contacting the British actors union Equity again was pointless, nothing could be found on their records.
So I decided to follow another trail, and to see if I could find anything of her son, Roberto. I made an educated guess that generally if father and mother work in film, that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. I discovered that there was indeed a "Roberto Malerba" who was (and still is) active in film productions; including various movies directed by Ridley Scott, so I made an educated guess he possibly lived in either the USA or in Italy. My hunch proved correct and I found an address for him in Los Angeles. After summing up the courage, I rang the number I had found. Roberto himself was not available when I called. However, I spoke to his wife Paula, who confirmed that it was the Roberto Malerba I was seeking and yes, he was Margaret's son. I explained to Paula that I was hoping to contact Margaret rather than Roberto, and was told that she too was now living in California. Paula also kindly gave me an email address, a telephone number and an address to write to her. I felt I had struck gold, I was on cloud nine! I called Julian at the BFI, advising him that la Lee had been found by yours truly. After hanging up the phone, I promptly despatched an email to the long elusive Margaret Lee.
To my pleasure and delight, she responded a few days later. In her short friendly response, she appeared to be most delighted to hear from me and most curious as to me and my projects. In replying, I confess, my first questions admittedly (at risk of sounding un-gentlemanly) were to ask her real name (Margaret Gwendolyn Box), and date (4th, August 1943) and place (Wolverhampton) of birth, so as resolve the questions that had been perplexing me for years. To which, thankfully, Margaret responded to without hesitation. A couple of years later, I found these facts reproduced in an excellent book on a number of the starlets of the 1960s. I had the pleasure to meet the author, Tom Lisanti, whilst in New York and confirmed them as being true as I was in fact in touch, at that point, with Margaret and probably, indirectly, where Tom had learned these biographical details.
After having exchanged a few emails (or "e-letters") as Margaret charmingly named my correspondence, she agreed to answer some questions and talked about her life both as an actress but also away from the limelight of Rome. Early on, I told her that one of my friends had interviewed Harry Towers (a producer) as Margaret said she would very much like to know what had happened to Towers' wife, the Austrian actress Maria Rohm. Margaret described Maria as being an old friend, and the two women had appeared in various films together in the late sixties. After Towers' initial hesitation to divulge any contact details for Maria, I was contacted out of the blue, and given Maria's contact details to hand on to Margaret.
As time passed, Margaret and I exchanged an email every few weeks and eventually, whilst I was in California working on a number of interviews in 2002, I plucked up courage and called her for the first time. Admittedly I entertained a school boy's hope that we could meet whilst I was there, but that was not to be as Margaret was busy with a local theatre project, however Margaret requested that we stay in contact and continue to exchange "e-letters". Having broken the ice with speaking on the telephone, and owing to the time difference and at an agreed time, we would also speak on the phone from time to time. Over time and during our conversations, Margaret talked some more about her life. She opened up and was more frank. We also spoke on subjects more personal than just her movie career. Margaret spoke of her hopes for the future, how she missed Europe, and some of her issues in California, to which I listened and tried my best to listen and be supportive from afar. Over the years, Margaret recorded some tapes of sonnets and poems as gifts for my birthday or for Christmas. She also designed some astrological birth charts for me (I still have them), and we remained in contact until Christmas 2005. I received a card from Margaret that year but after that I sadly never heard from her again.
Piecing together Margaret Lee’s life is like having a 500 piece jigsaw in which one only has about 120 of the pieces. By my own admission, it is frustrating when you actually know the person and sometimes, when you don’t want to risk damaging the trust of the person you genuinely like, yet you seek information and the truth. It makes it all the more difficult when you have sometimes heard bad things, tales involving various scandals as well as quite probably malicious gossip. Gossip which isn’t true and doesn’t represent the facts. Rumours abounded in the 1980s as to why Margaret had vanished in the 1970s when she returned to England to raise her second son away from the bright lights of Rome. From time to time, glossy gossip supplements and magazines still surface on Ebay or elsewhere, and though they provoke more questions, I never felt comfortable nor my place to ask such questions of my friend. To me, it was difficult, the researcher in me was intrigued yet at the same time, I was honoured that Margaret could talk to me and felt at sufficient ease to talk about the here and now, not just about her past, not just the movies she made, but seemed to respect me as a person and not just as a fan, a writer, a journalist. Some of what Margaret told me in confidence I wouldn’t want to share and have respected that ever since. It is a difficult situation, but ultimately, one day, I hope to hear from Margaret again, and that she is well, and maybe one day I will find out if there was any truth in what was claimed, but if I don’t ever know the whole truth there is part of me doesn’t care. It is a true dilemma to find myself in. A quest to find the truth, yet respecting and valuing friendships and trust.
Over the years since then, I have considered trying to contact Margaret once more, but I confess that I do so with trepidation , as I feel really rather nervous in doing so once again. I did speak to her younger son, Damian, in 2007, on the phone when he was living in Rome. He came across as being extremely affable and a most friendly fellow on the phone and we planned on meeting for a drink, but again, that has yet to happen. Never say never! I think he was rather surprised when I said that I was around his age (I believe he is about 6 months older than me), but advised me that his mother was well and still in California. Sometimes I think of contacting him through Facebook to ask after his mother and have considered making my introductions once again, yet somehow I always lose my nerve at the last minute as I start to hesitate, and then I hesitate some more and put it off.
I do truly hope she is well and happy, and I do truly miss our lively, friendly correspondence. I do think of her from time to time, and worry about her and her welfare. I liked talking to her and appreciated and enjoyed the friendship we had started to cultivate on the lines of those I had made previously whom I had met in person. For me, the best thing to come out of those days creating DVD extras/interviews/documentaries, call them what you will, has been the lasting friendships I have enjoyed as a result.
Before she vanished once again, Margaret was kind enough to send me an up to date photograph of her as I confess that I was intrigued to see how she looked after the two decades (now nearly three) since she had last been seen on screen. I had sent her a photograph so she could see the face of the person with whom she was engaging in so much correspondence with. To which, she kindly sent me a photograph of herself, albeit in stage makeup, when she had played the Yama in a production of the Bhagavad Gita, in a small local theatrical production near where she lived. Looking at the photograph, and although she is older, Margaret continues to retain her allure, and beauty, and in my eyes, is very much recognizable from the glory days in her youth as a beautiful starlet and actress, both of cinema and television.
Margaret Lee sings
As a little follow up to the post above (previously below), I thought I would include some links to Margaret Lee in her heyday, alongside Johnny Dorelli, the first two from the film Arriva Dorellik, where she sings (rather than is dubbed) the same catchy little number "Crash Shi Shi Pata Poum" in English and in Italian, and one from the popular TV show, Johnny Sera, both from the mid sixties.
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