The great Shelley Duvall passed away today, and all I can think about are the rougher edges of her story. Her agony on the set of The Shining, that stupid fucking episode of Dr. Phil, her years in the whatever-happened-to wilderness. But I don't want Shelley Duvall to live in my memory as a victim, as someone who was yelled at, ground down, and paraded around as a sideshow. A Cannes Best Actress and Peabody Award winner, let alone of the the iconic American actresses of the 1970s, deserves a better legacy in my head.

Duvall was, in short, the coolest, an instant value-added to any movie she was in, no matter how small the role. What her filmography lacks in volume is made up in pure presence. There is, of course, her god run as part of Robert Altman's stock company in the 1970s, but her idiosyncratic TV work in the 1980s, much of it as the main creative force, is well worth your time and attention. After her heyday, she popped up here and there in the 1990s and 2000s, in projects helmed by everyone from Jane Campion to Steven Soderbergh, and retired in 2002.

Then, 14 years late, that stupid fucking episode of Dr. Phil happened, an episode of television so cruel and callow that Lee Unkrich—the fucking Toy Story guy, who's also Shining superfan number one—tracked her down himself to make sure she was okay.

Broadly speaking, she was. In 2021, Duvall was profiled in the Hollywood Reporter and, for the first time in a long time, she got to tell her side of the stories that loomed over her legend. People loved and will always love Shelley Duvall, but this piece, written by Seth Abramovitch, was key in reminding the world who she was. It made clear as day that behind the big eyes and ingenue roles was a woman tough as Texas leather.

But what will linger with me the longest is the audio of her being coached by Harry Nilsson through her rendition of “He Needs Me,” from Big Swing Hall of Fame film Popeye. Any Altman starring Shelley Duvall is worth your time, but Popeye is kind of a weird miracle. The part of Malta where they shot the movie still looks like that.

“Good, Shelley!”

#obit #movies

Steve Dalkowski, a man who threw baseballs fast enough to scare Ted Williams and wildly enough to never make it to the majors, has passed away at the age of 80. He wasn't a stud athlete or a Hall of Famer, but the myth of his laser-like fastball made him a cult figure to people like me, people who are enamoured with the mythopoetic aura of baseball. And for my money, Dalko is the most mythopoetic figure in a sport teeming with them. The raw talent, the demons, the tall tales that may very well be true. Hell, I even wrote a poem about him back in October.

His stat lines boggle the mind: over nine seasons bouncing around the minors, we went 46-80, struck out 1,324 batters (that's an absurd 12.5 K/9 for those playing the home game) and walked 1,236 (an even more absurd 11.6 BB/9). He would routinely throw 200-plus pitches in a game and, people swear, still threw harder than Nolan Ryan, Sandy Koufax, anybody. Writer/director Ron Shelton, who wrote about Dalko in 2009 for the Los Angeles Times, partially modelled Bull Durham's Nuke LaLoosh on the legendarily wild lefty.

He was a tragic figure. The magical arm that got him the nickname “White Lightning” went limp as he was about to make the jump to the Baltimore Orioles in 1963. Tommy John surgery was still a decade away at this point, so he never got his form back, hit the bottle, and more or less drifted for 30 years after he hung up his cleats in 1966. He couldn't remember most of that time because of alcohol-induced dementia.

The tale of Steve Dalkowski is mighty and sad, and I suggest you read every word written on him. There's a 1970 Sports Illustrated article by Pat Jordan that I recommend you start with, and this part near the end cuts right to why Dalko is an enduring figure in baseball lore:

Steve Dalkowski's real fame lies not in any list of statistics or legends but in all those low minor league towns like Wellsville and Leesburgand Yakima and Stockton, where young players still struggle toward the major leagues. To these minor-leaguers Dalkowski always symbolized every frustration and elation they had ever felt. His successes and failures were theirs and, though he failed, they looked with pride on that, too. Because his failure was not one of deficiency, but rather of excess. He was too fast. His ball moved too much. His talent was too superhuman. In a way, Dalkowski's failure softened the grimness of their own possible failure. [x]

#obit #baseball

We all are born with a certain package. We are who we are: where we were born, who we were born as, how we were raised. We're kind of stuck inside that person, and the purpose of civilization and growth is to be able to reach out and empathize a little bit with other people. And for me, the movies are like a machine that generates empathy. It lets you understand a little bit more about different hopes, aspirations, dreams and fears. It helps us to identify with the people who are sharing this journey with us.

Roger Ebert, one of my film-crit heroes, died six years ago today. I owe Roger more than I care to admit. He was the first person I encountered who looked at movies as art objects. He wrote with warmth, clarity, and respect for the medium. He was smart and persuasive even when I disagreed with his conclusions (and seriously, if you're not locking horns with your heroes on a semi-regular basis, what the hell are you even doing?). He taught me to trust my gut. His work will always be a resource and an inspiration to me.

I really, really miss having him around.

#movies #obit