Mia Farrow

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While Roman Polanski is obviously far from perfect, his 1968 film, Rosemary’s Baby, is essentially flawless. Here’s the Criterion Collection video about the making of that masterpiece, courtesy of Vice. The movie caused a permanent rift between producer Robert Evans and Frank Sinatra. It was worth it.

The subtext: I know you don’t confuse the artist and the art, but it seems hypocritical that Mia Farrow speaks so glowingly of Polanski given her outspokenness about Woody Allen.

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Robert Evans’ second memoir, The Fat Lady Sangfeaturing his customary blend of hard-boiled talk and Hollywoodisms, is excerpted in the Telegraph. The passage has to do with his relationship with Frank Sinatra, which went to pot over Mia Farrow’s decision to star in Rosemary’s Baby. The opening:

“‘Kid, you remind me of me. Been watching you close. They tell me you’re comin’ off great. Been around long enough to have a nose who’s going to make it and who ain’t. You got a shot at going all the way. Take some advice from a guy who’s never learnt. When it comes to those hangers-on, though, take my advice: have your radar on high.’ The words were coming straight from the mouth of the King, Frank Sinatra by name, having a mano-a-mano powwow at Chasen’s, his favourite restaurant in town.

It was spring of ’59. He was a megastar playing the lead role in the filmization of the Broadway musical Can-Can.

Me? A punk starlet, playing my first starring role in The Hell-Bent Kid, a western remake of Kiss of Death. Screen-tested and plucked it away from many. Can-Can and The Kid − hell-bent, that is − were shooting on adjoining soundstages at 20th Century Fox.

The laugh being that it was he who sought me out, and with purpose, not by mistake.

He was wondering, how does a punk kid not yet hitting the quarter-century mark end up in the biblical sense with the two great loves of his life?

Adding insult to injury, the Chairman’s spies told him I’d been seeing both of them at the same time. Their names? Ava Gardner and Lana Turner.”

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From Italian television. The Fab Four was accompanied by Mia Farrow and Donovan. No Monkees were there, but lots of actual monkeys were. The whole trip to find enlightenment at the feet of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi didn’t pass the stink test, but the footage is still amazing.

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"I worked with Freud in Vienna. We broke over the concept of penis envy. Freud felt that it should be limited to women."

The twentieth century may have been known as the “Century of the Self,” but it was a time when psychotherapy was ascendant, people were questioning their egos and phrases like “Me Decade” were used in the pejorative. There was a sense of introspection and healing, as wrong-minded as the methods may have been at times, as opposed to the sheer exhibitionism that succeeded it. This century may end up being the “Century of You,” but it still seems to be just another way to say “Me.” And minus the introspection.

Woody Allen’s pitch-perfect period-piece mockumentary profiles a unique and now-forgotten Jazz Age character, the protean protagonist Leonard Zelig. A man who fears that being himself will lead to unpopularity, Zelig adapts the personas, professions and attitudes of whomever he encounters. In tall tale tradition, he is able to actually alter his physical appearance. When surrounded by heavyset men, his belly distends. In Paris jazz clubs, his skin darkens so that he can play with musicians of color. In Chicago bars, scars suddenly crawl across his face when he rubs elbows with gangsters. The unusual talent allows Zelig to insert himself into a variety of famous historical moments–and eventually lands him in a mental institution, where he comes under the care of Dr. Eudora Fletcher (Mia Farrow). She hopes to cure the chameleon and make her career all at once. Of course, she encounters difficulties since Zelig insists that he’s also a psychiatrist, wanting to resemble her.

In a twist, Zelig’s ability to subsume his own ego is what helps sustain him at a vital moment. Despte this stroke of good luck, Zelig continues to find it difficult to walk the fine line between utter conformity and unbridled ego. But at least he was trying.•

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