Kiss Me in the Shadow of a Doubt

RIP Teresa Wright [1918-2005]

Many wonderful human beings have died recently: Hunter S. Thompson, Arthur Miller, Elvin Jones, Ronald Reagan, Henry David Thoreau. Teresa Wright might not have contributed as much to the world as the notable figures I just mentioned, but she'll always be remembered -- at least for me -- for her portrayal of the rebelliously naive, hopelessly idealistic, and ultimately disillusioned yet intelligent young woman who picks herself up from the ground after falling from her American, picket-fenced Eden in Alfred Hitchcock's 1943 masterpiece Shadow of a Doubt, the favorite of his own films. The film is subtly creepy -- in fact, it gave me nightmares the second time I watched it, though there is no violence on screen. She (Charlie Newton) idolizes her mysterious uncle, who is also named Charlie (Charlie/Charles Oakley, played by Joseph Cotten). Soon, she learns that he possesses the darkest of secrets. Her acting brilliantly illustrates what happens when idealism vanishes in one unexpected instant -- & how it can make one's soul shatter like a light bulb being thrown against a brick wall. What will emerge when these pieces are hastily put together in a hurried attempt to recreate that lost source of light?

That same year, Wright won the best supporting actress award for her role in Mrs. Miniver, which I've not seen. She never attained that level of stardom again in her career. Fittingly, her last role was in Francis Ford Coppola's adaptation of John Grisham's The Rainmaker (1997).

Cat, apologies for the somber tone of this post. I'm sitting on an ol' ricketty chair, kept in balance by an old issue of Mojo with a PiL-era photo of John Lydon on the cover. Since the streamlining of this thing called the Internet, I rarely read magazines -- oh, except for Cosmopolitan. They have wonderful auto repair tips in there! Reading gaudy, blinding profiles on MySpace -- created with the obsessiveness of a nine year-old crack addict anxiously awaiting another hit -- with half-naked photos of gothic ex-strippers is much more entertaining. And educational, too! As the eponymous, philosophical anti-hero of Hal Hartley's Henry Fool (1997) says, while reading a pornographic magazine, "I don't discriminate between modes of knowing."