I read this book for the Mount TBR Reading Challenge hosted over
at My
Reader’s Block from January 1 – December 31, 2016. The challenge is to read
books that you already own.
Brando for
Breakfast - Anna Kashfi and E.P. Stein
Anna Kashfi (1934 - 2015), was an Indian-born American
movie actress who was stormily married to Marlon Brando for 11 months before
they separated in 1958. She and Brando then fought a 14-year custody battle for
their son Christian. During one of the many hearings Brando said he married her
only because she was with child, and that he intended from the get-go to divorce her within a year.
Kashfi understandably has grievances, being married
to a genius actor who was an unconventional selfish human being. And so early
on in this hatchet job fur flies:
Marlon’s sexual tutti-frutti
comprise several shadier flavors…I had heard tales of his consorting with
ducks, attending exhibitionist orgies, joining the Club Necrophilia (wherein
bodies of deceased celebrities are rented out) and consulting a ‘proctolist’ (a
‘rectum-reader’ whose soothsaying derives from anal creases).
Duck f*cking and celeb corpses aside, sometimes it is constructive
to get confirmation that people will believe anything, like telling the future
from wrinkles of the rectum. But the compassion we readers feel for Bud and Anna
is only the automatic sympathy any decent person would feel upon hearing the
story of two adults that apparently couldn’t help themselves figuring, why not
bring a child into our madhouse of a household? The compassion we feel does not
come from the writing. The tone is too mean, the mood too livid, the incidents
too sordid, the conceit too pathetic for us readers to feel much for the unhappy
couple.
Which is not to say it is totally humorless. Somehow the
subject’s really odd vocabulary choices got by the ghost writer. I can’t
imagine any professional writer letting word choices like this escape
deletion: "He balanced a
steatopygous form on squat, sturdy legs." Steato – whuh? And it is not
just trouble with hard words. I’ve heard of lies both “barefaced” and
“baldfaced” but I’ve never heard of a “barefoot lie.”
A more intentional upside is that she tells interesting
production stories about Streetcar, One Eyed Jacks, and Mutiny on the Bounty. Chunks of the
last third of this book, however, are marred by tales of lawyers, courtrooms,
hearings, writs, injunctions, allegations of lying, about all of which is as
interesting as hearing about somebody’s gall bladder procedure.
The upshot is, even if only half of what she says is
true, working with a creative person who is chaotic in daily habits and
childishly selfish in expectations from other people must be hard but living
with such a creature of nature must be impossible. In a weird incident, he came
home under the impression that she was had drowned in the pool. When he saw she
was in fact still alive, he got a disappointed look on his face. ‘Tis a rare
marriage that could survive that.
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