107. Remember the Night (1940)

Directed by Mitchell Leiden
Written by Preston Sturges
Starring Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray, and Beulah Bondi

Don’t forget about Fred “Snowflake” Toones, the Black actor who earned his living taking the fucked-up, tertiary parts Hollywood made available to him – in this case, a child-like manservant who serves as a perpetual reminder of the white DA’s country roots. We all deserve a little respite at Christmas, though it shouldn’t cost a lawyer with a guilty conscience $5000. Only during the holidays can love blossom in a week. Someone tell me how Niagara Falls works as a visual shorthand for sex. The problem with being only partially out is that you’re always on guard, waiting for an awkward comment or gentle interrogation that probably won’t (and didn’t) even come. It’s getting harder to be called he. I picked up a cake X ordered for her dad from a bakery in deep South Philly, and I dropped my voice and liberally used the phrase my wife. My bulky winter coat helps me pass for a dude. It’s a good safety measure for when the bathroom situation is less than ideal. But I can’t hide the fact that I’m brown, and a lot of white folks suck at hiding their discomfort with me, no matter how cordial they may be. Yesterday I had a panic attack in the car and cried in bed instead of going to my in-laws’s annual holiday gathering half an hour from my house. Why do I find Barbara Stanwyck movies so soothing? I know she was a conservative monster IRL. Maybe I’m trying to emulate her onscreen persona: assertive but vulnerable, glamorous and unapologetic. My sister just came back from the Philippines and told me about our second cousin once removed (?), a fellow long-haired guitar player whom she described as sweet and gentle, and I was so touched knowing that those were the first words she’d use to describe me. I jokingly asked if he was also baklâ, which took her off guard and resulted in a beat of weirdness. Maybe that was on me. It feels so wrong and so right to be writing this in the new flagship Wawa on Chestnut Street. The store is needlessly nice, with decent couches and nitro coffee on tap — the kind of place J and I might end up in at 2 AM on a Sunday. I can live without free wifi, but c’mon, how hard is it to put in a gender-neutral bathroom?