Sweet, sweet Adrienne Barbeau

Last night I met AE at a local independent bookseller for a book reading/signing. The author was none other than Broadway performer, film actress, sitcom star, erstwhile scream queen and now author Adrienne Barbeau. She is promoting her career autobiography, There Are Worse Things I Could Do, a title cribbed from the song featured in the musical Grease. (Ms. Barbeau performed this number as the character Rizzo, a Tony-nominated role she originated. Although the song is intended to generate a little sympathy for the poor, misunderstood lead Pink Lady and chief tormentor of new girl Sandy, I imagine that thoughts of what those "worse things" could possibly be set tongues wagging.) I remember Ms. Barbeau most vividly from Swamp Thing, a film adapted from a comic book, directed by Wes Craven and released at a time in my life when all movies were good or at least made a distinct impression. Swamp Thing and, in particular, Adrienne Barbeau made an impression. Let me address the elephant(s) in the room, as it were: She does have large breasts. Although such endowments were undoubtedly an object of my surely innocent curiosity, they do not fully account for a 10-year-old's fascination. Incredibly attractive, she was never conventionally beautiful. Softer now, her facial features were in her youth forceful and sharp, and even with her abundant curves, she had an Amazonian quality about her. (This is but one reason she is so effective as a castrating harridan, relentlessly belittling Hal Holbrook, in Creepshow.) Perhaps for reasons of commercial necessity and genre requirements, though, some of her roles, including those in Swamp Thing and The Fog, a film directed by horror maestro (and her ex-husband) John Carpenter, retained an unfortunate damsel-in-distress component. The movies suffered for it, for anyone who watched her on screen was keenly aware of her physical prowess and vast inner reserves of strength and knew she could more than handle herself. More than anyone I can recall, she was a real-world superheroine, the whole package. Sexy and resourceful as she was, she could really take care of you. But if you crossed her, she would, well, really take care of you.

As last night's event demonstrated, Adrienne Barbeau is no less appealing for no longer (or ever, actually) being that woman. Time (she's 60ish) and, I suspect, motherhood (she has twin nine-year-old boys in additon to an older son) have both conspired with the inherently diminishing effect of appearing off screen to render her a little less larger than life. Having traded thrilling intensity for earthy sweetness, the author was generous with her time and eminently patient. She completely indulged certain of her fans who had crawled out of the woodwork, perhaps literally, for the occasion. (Of which fans, I swear, I was not the worst. But for the grace of God go I.) The anecdote that seems to best capture the dichotomy between the flesh-and-blood woman she is and the demi-icon she nonetheless remains is one she told about the collision between the two personae. Someone in the audience had asked if her tweenage children are familiar with her earlier work. She doubts that her kids have any awareness of her tenure as Bea Arthur's daughter on Maude, and as a good mother and someone who herself is "not a horror enthusiast," she is not inclined to show them the fright films in which she starred. She related that once, while entertaining friends, she did try to occupy the boys with The Cannonball Run, in which their mother appears alongside Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise and many others as a road vixen competing in an cross-country race. She was surprised to discover that this film holds greater risks for her kids than its lame comedy and that the horror movies might have been the safer choice after all. Watching Cannonball, the still-young children of Adrienne Barbeau were terrified by character actor Jack Elam's disturbing insect eyes and scandalized by Mom's ample cleavage, exposed to evade a traffic citation.

I have yet to read Ms. Barbeau's book, but I hope a lot of people buy it. I further hope she enjoys a continued life and career sufficient to warrant a second volume of her bio.

ADRIENNE BARBEAU

in

The Creepy Fan with the Unyielding Grip

Just deserts

From Sunday's New York Times:

It is not true that horror movies are a mindless, wasteful form of entertainment with no redeeming social value. From a studious viewing of horror flicks, one can learn several important, even life-saving lessons. The importance of sticking to paved highways, for example. As countless movies have demonstrated, most recently Wolf Creek and The Hills Have Eyes, Alexandre Aja's remake of the 1977 Wes Craven classic, the detour down a dirt road is almost always a mistake, especially in the desert.

A couple friends of mine recently completed their own horror film, Death Valley (not pictured), the mayhem of which also transpires in the desert, and I occasionally wonder what it is that makes the locale such a potentially effective setting for the genre. Granted, there are few, if any, places for a "monster" to hide. Of course, there are equally few places to hide from such a creature. And that is the particular horror of the desert: whatever dangers it may present, it leaves one vulnerable, naked and exposed to the elements and any threats. Moreover, the desert, as its name pointedly suggests in verb form, has been isolated, abandoned or forgotten by law, civilization (and all of its niceties) and probably whatever higher power you prefer. (I am told all this by the put-upon yet plucky Death Valley caterer.) Remote places like this are termed godforsaken for a reason. Under the circumstances, the desert's vast expanse, so idealized in country music and Hollywood westerns, generates its own claustrophobia, and that brilliant desert sun, its special brand of darkness.

More urgently, watch the season finale of that other delightful blend of light and dark, Veronica Mars, which airs tonight at 9 p.m. on UPN.




"I didn't think it was possible, Ronni, but you are even cuter when you pout."

Considered medical judgment

"Uh, you know, at your age you really should consider some regular physical activity."

Thank you, Hippocrates, but I have considered -- and rejected -- it.