Audrey Hepburn cornered
Cary Grant in a Paris
hotel lift and finally
got to the bottom of
one of the great impon-
derables of American
cinema, in Stanley Don-
en's farcical thriller,
Charade (1963). I went
to see the movie with
a Dartmouth freshman
in my curiously end-
less rôle as a younger
sibling, not yet of the
shaving class, myself.
By the time of his
commencement, my in-
terest was no longer
academic, as I had
crossed the hirsute
frontier, yet still
not into the land of
road trips to the near-
est licensed premises.
Oh, I might tag along.
I even learned the cus-
tom of the determined
drive, to the nearest
place like Vassar.
But there was a frontier toward which no curiosity conducted me, toward which I really didn't venture. I saw it as a chore I could just as easily postpone. I don't mean to claim any profit by this flat procrastination, except to say that it strangely spared me any pang of abstinence. I had no sense of doing, anything; I had no sense of not doing, anything - but of course, this doesn't mean I was being very bright. Nor if it did mean anything, even to this day I could not responsibly say, it could mean only one thing. In all events, it did mean, I did not meet my Audrey Hepburn, until she was brought into my eating club as my friend's romance.
They still make fron-
tiers, I find; and I
have learned to take
them with a merrier
anticipation. Not with
any better perception,
nor with much advance
in method. But there
are pictures, to this
day, which can show an
edge or two to make
one smile, even about
oneself. Still, I know
never to expect obser-
vation to be welcomed
as anything better than
spying, without rever-
ing farce.
Stanley Donen
director, producer
Peter Stone
screenplay
Charade
Universal, 1963©
Robbie Beeser
Road guys
Georgia, Caucasus
Joonas Parviainen
Model for Damir Doma
Paris
Blond at border
Germany
Joonas Paraviainen
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