Grace Kelly

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la presse

 

[nmyngan]

spiegel

 

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lfi

 

[Beckham18]

Love the picture in 4427 thanks

 

[scriptgirl]

You are welcome!

 

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wr

 

[scriptgirl]

ebay

 

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ebay

 

[scriptgirl]

LA times

John Michael Hayes, a two-time Academy Award-nominated screenwriter best known for his collaboration with Alfred Hitchcock on four films, including "Rear Window" and "To Catch a Thief," has died. He was 89.

Hayes, who taught screenwriting at Dartmouth College in Hanover, N.H., in the late 1980s and the 1990s, died in his sleep of age-related causes Nov. 19 at a retirement community in Hanover, said his daughter, Meredyth Hayes-Badreau.

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A former writer for radio series, Hayes had four screenwriting credits when he began his Hitchcock collaboration with "Rear Window."

The 1954 suspense drama starred James Stewart as a photographer who is confined to a wheelchair with a broken leg and, while idly spying on his neighbors across the courtyard of his Greenwich Village apartment building, comes to believe that one of his neighbors has committed a murder.

The screenplay, based on a short story by Cornell Woolrich, earned Hayes his first Oscar nomination.

Hayes based the character of Stewart's elegant fiance, played by Grace Kelly, on his wife, Mildred, who was known as Mel.

"The thing was, in the story of 'Rear Window,' there was no woman, and Hitch wanted a woman," Hayes recalled in a 1999 interview with the Worcester (Mass.) Telegram & Gazette. "He had done 'Dial M for Murder' with Grace Kelly and said, 'We have to have a girl, and I want to use Grace Kelly.' "

Hitchcock, Hayes recalled, "told me to spend a week or two with her to get to know her, which I did. My wife was a very beautiful girl, a high-style fashion model, so I used the world I knew and I made Grace Kelly a model."

"Rear Window," Hayes believed, was "technically and every other way" Hitchcock's best film.

"It still has a life of its own," he said in the 1999 interview. "I brought dialogue, character and humor to Hitch. He had the suspense, and we melded very well. He liked my sometimes flippant dialogue, and so did the audience."

The success of "Rear Window" propelled Hayes to the top echelon of screenwriters.

And for Hitchcock, "the collaboration marked the beginning of his most successful period, critically and commercially," Steven DeRosa wrote in his 2001 book "Writing With Hitchcock: The Collaboration of Alfred Hitchcock and John Michael Hayes."

Hayes' screenplays for Hitchcock's "To Catch a Thief" (1955), "The Trouble With Harry" (1955) and "The Man Who Knew Too Much" (1956) followed.

DeRosa told The Times on Tuesday that the screenplays that Hayes "wrote for Alfred Hitchcock became much more character-driven than strictly plot-driven or device-driven."

"In 'Rear Window,' for instance, you have a wheelchair-bound hero who never sets foot out of the apartment, and he made an exciting motion picture out of that. It's one of Hitchcock's most entertaining films."

Drew Casper, the Alma and Alfred Hitchcock Professor of American Film at USC's School of Cinematic Arts, told The Times on Tuesday that what Hayes "did for Hitchcock, is he brought a deeper humanity to his films, particularly in terms of warmth and in terms of humor."

Despite the success of the Hitchcock-Hayes collaboration, the attention Hayes received in the press for his screenwriting put a dent in his relationship with the iconic film director.

When Hayes won an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for "Rear Window," he brought the small ceramic statuette into Hitchcock's office. After examining it, Hitchcock told Hayes, "You know, they make toilet bowls out of the same material."

"I felt that he resented my receiving an award when he didn't," Hayes told Donald Spoto, author of the 1983 book "The Dark Side of Genius: The Life of Alfred Hitchcock."

Although Hayes later said he considered Hitchcock "a joy and a pleasure to work with," their relationship soured over a screen credit dispute on "The Man Who Knew Too Much," in which Hayes prevailed.

 

[scriptgirl]

Arizona Republic
Most movies last two hours, give or take, which means plenty of chances for magical moments. Then why do so few films have any at all? The reasons are many - bad scripts, bad acting and bad direction are the usual culprits. But occasionally something happens on-screen that takes only a few seconds, a few minutes at most, that changes entirely the way we perceive a film. (Note: Yes, some moments are so bad that they change our perception. But we're thinking positively here.)

Here are five moments that either set the tone for the film they're in or elevate it.
Grace Kelly's wave in 'Rear Window'

In Rear Window (1954), photographer Jimmy Stewart is laid up with a broken leg. Girlfriend Grace Kelly, impossibly beautiful, comes to his aid, bringing dinner and companionship. But Stewart, bored, becomes a voyeur with his camera, watching the other apartments in his complex, and something is wrong in one. Convinced the occupant (Raymond Burr) has killed his wife, he sends Kelly to investigate. On her way, he sees her between buildings. She looks up and gives a quick, one-handed wave. It says everything - that she's nervous, that she's excited, that she knows he's watching. It's perfect.

 

[scriptgirl]

Telegraph
As I write this I am sitting at my desk wearing jeans, thermal vest, two layers of long-sleeved cotton T-shirts, a hooded top and sheepskin slippers upon which my dog is resting her head, thus providing added warmth. As a winter working uniform it's practical, but hardly glamorous, and this may be why I've been thinking longingly of pencil skirts worn with perfectly cut blouses and high heels.
Such is the perversity of human nature (mine, anyway). Because, of course, when I did have to dress up to go to work in an office, I used to yearn to be able to write at home in comfy pyjamas, instead of tottering into the rush-hour Tube in a constrictive skirt and spindly shoes. Anyway, I wish I hadn't chucked out the pencil skirts from my wardrobe, because I could do with one right now. Well, not this very second – I'm about to go and cook a shepherd's pie and unload the dishwasher, thus proving my skills as a multitasking 21st-century worker – but I'm hankering after a pencil skirt.
The shops are full of them this season – they're part of the revival of classic minimalism that has taken hold since the downturn (frills being too synonymous with Marie Antoinette). Alexander McQueen has designed the perfect version in black crêpe – sombre yet sleek, as if to signify that the wearer is smart and serious enough to survive the deepest recession – but it's £275 and, if you bought it, you'd probably also want the matching fitted jacket for £1,085.
Some of the best high-street alternatives come from Banana Republic, including a black high-waisted pencil skirt for £75; but you'll need to try them on to find one that skims over the tummy, at the same time as accentuating womanly curves. Personally, I prefer the tightly fitted 1950s look, as opposed to the blockier pencil skirts of the 1980s; it's the difference between Tippi Hedren or Grace Kelly in a Hitchcock film and Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. (Incidentally, Griffith is Hedren's daughter in reality, though the sassy secretary she plays in Working Girl is accused of getting above herself, and thinking she's Grace Kelly when she starts dressing for success.)
Whatever you think of Working Girl and its take on Cinderella with big hair and shoulder pads, it proves that you don't have to
be as thin as a pin to wear a pencil skirt; you just need a certain amount of self-confidence, and an office to swing through, while keeping your eye on the job.

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[scriptgirl]

Times Online
I was cycling into the office, the junction of Bethnal Green Road and Vallance Road, a clear cold day, deep in thought, and, as often happens these days, a fellow cyclist overtook me. The cagoule looked familiar, and then he looked over his shoulder and I realised it was Tim from work. “Is that you, Robert?” he asked. Sorry, Tim, I said, I was miles away there. “I wasn’t sure with the hat and the sunglasses,” he said, “so I went by the nose and the chin.” Thanks mate, I said, coming alongside him.

“So,” said Tim, “what were you thinking about?” Well, since you ask, I shouted, having dropped back to allow a bus to pull around us, I was thinking about David Niven. We carried on, single file, Tim ahead, yelling at each other above the traffic. “Go on then,” called Tim, “why were you thinking about David Niven?” Let’s get off this road, I called back, and I’ll tell you.

We turned on to a quieter street and rode alongside each other again. David Niven, I said, in a normal voice, had a massive influence on me as a boy. My mum and dad had copies of The Moon’s a Balloon and Bring on the Empty Horses, Niven’s two exquisitely crafted memoirs of the Golden Age of Hollywood. I read them, and re-read them, pretty much learnt them, when I was about 13.

Thirty-one years later, the previous night, stuck for a book at bedtime, I’d scoured the shelves for something light, something familiar, and my eye had fallen on Bring on the Empty Horses, Niven’s second volume of not precisely true but hugely entertaining anecdotes. “Something familiar” turned out to be an understatement. Starting the chapter on Clark Gable, I realised I could recall virtually every sentence.

And then that morning, ie, just an hour before Tim and I wended our way through the East End, I had woken up with an unstoppable, almost frenzied desire for all things David Niven. So, still in my pyjamas, I’d googled him. Besides some things I already knew, I discovered something I didn’t, namely that the actor’s second marriage, to Swedish model Hjordis Tersmeden, had been desperately unhappy, partly because of her drinking, partly because of his womanising, who am I to apportion blame?

So, I continued – and to Tim’s credit, I don’t think his eyes were fully glazed over yet – here was a chap who, on the face of it, had enjoyed this blissful existence, a long career, an Oscar, two bestsellers, a good war, homes in the Swiss Alps and the French Riviera, sunshine, skiing, sailing, champagne, pals with Bogart and Astaire and Grace Kelly (some say rather more than pals with Grace Kelly, the lucky old goat)… And yet privately the second half of his life had been essentially miserable. It was this sad information I had been brooding upon when Tim happened by.

“Would you like to have been David Niven?” asked Tim. On balance, no, I replied, even radically alternate reality must have some basis in actual reality to gain any traction, and David Niven and I are about as dissimilar as it’s possible to be. But certainly I wouldn’t have minded being where Niven was when he was. England in the Twenties, California in the Thirties, Forties and Fifties, southern France in the Sixties and Seventies. All immensely agreeable.

I don’t think I’m unusual in spending a lot of time ruminating on lives I haven’t lived, people I haven’t met, characters who, in the case of novels and films, do not even exist. Socialists used to say conventional history left ordinary people out of the account, the great mass who didn’t keep diaries or send letters or enter the written record in any way other than to be born and marry and die, sometimes not even then. Feminists say that conventional history fails to represent women. Perhaps the great unwritten history of our own age is the history of our imaginations, flitting about after fantasies put in our heads by popular culture.

Whatever. Tim and I arrived at work. He went to his desk, I went in search of other people with whom to discuss David Niven. They were not in short supply. We’re all roughly of an age here, and I suppose working on a magazine we’re predisposed to have an interest in celebrity, film and gossip, but even so, it was remarkable the extent to which a bunch of kids growing up in Ipswich and Dorchester and Hull and Dundee in the Seventies had all fallen under the spell of the great man. David Niven this, David Niven that, David Niven the other, it was wall-to-wall David Niven for a good half an hour.

I went into my office. “Morning, Bobbly,” said Alan Franks, my roommate. Never mind that Al, I said, I want to talk about David Niven. “A much under-rated actor,” said Alan, “a fine writer, wonderful raconteur obviously, no problem with David Niven at all.” In the pantheon of great British film stars, I said, where would you put David Niven? Alan sat back to consider. A full report of the ensuing discussion will appear next week.

 

[scriptgirl]

Business World
duction’s tired staff to her home for a party. A granddaughter was celebrating her 18th birthday and was having a party. As expected, among the fine fare of the dinner table was the lechon as only she and her husband can serve. It is low in fat and the delicious skin is indeed crispy and the meat succulent indeed.

Of course, I concentrated on the specialty and pigged out on "to die for" lechon. When we were headed home, Nini gave me some to take home along with the distinctive sauce. That meant I could have paksiw na lechon for breakfast — one of my favorite treats.

In fact, I have often stated if you want to bribe me via the stomach, just offer me paksiw na lechon, cold atis and sinangag and I am sure to accept any offer.

 

[scriptgirl]

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[Sensibility]

the most beutiful woman who has existed in this world... rest in peace dear princess...