My familiar

MISSING

Have you seen this bird?

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I never understood how Kim Novak allowed herself to be so careless, losing her powers to a mortal man. The cost seems too high even if the man happens to be Jimmy Stewart. I am, of course, referring the 1958 film Bell, Book & Candle. In Act 2 turning point, Novak summons her familiar, Piwacket, to do her bidding, to cast a final horrible spell, to punish her lover, to avenge herself. Instead, Pi hisses and claws at his mistress as if she were a stranger. His defection is inexplicable until we discover Novak crying. Because witches are supposed to be incapable of emotion, her tears mark an irreversible transformation.

-She's in love.
-Wouldn't she rather be dead?

Love in the movies does not make any logical sense. How could a woman of such strength, beauty, and talent succumb to the jealousies and insecurities of mortal love? And why? This is completely beneath her, a betrayal of her character. Worse, it is a betrayal of me, who up until that moment believed Gillian Holroyd (Novak) to be cool and in control, only to watch her rendered powerless and ordinary by a man. Again, even if he is played by Jimmy Stewart, he is only a man. See where I’m going with this, dear reader?

I'd prefer not to think overmuch about why I rely on moderately-successful 1950s films as a primary point of reference in relationships, rather than drawing upon real-life examples. My father did not exactly provide the best model for caring functional relationships. And although I have long forgiven him for being a gaping, if well-intentioned, void in his daughter’s life, his absence during the seminal years of development have left gaps in my emotional intelligence—that is, gaps filled by conventions of classic Hollywood movies.

It is embarrassing for me to admit that in my innermost imaginings of romantic love, my leading man and I are fabulously dressed, drinking gibsons, exchanging witty repartee through a series of medium close-ups and reverse shots. But beyond the artifice, I envisioned at core that perfectionism found only in films of that era—in Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck, and, my beloved Humphrey Bogart. So even if Novak was silly enough to lose her identity, I wanted Stewart to be the kind of mortal man who deserved her. Perhaps this is setting myself up for certain disappointment in real life, but only because the standards to which people normally hold themselves are lax and not that the earlier standards are unreasonable or unattainable.

Then again, there comes a moment when it is appropriate to let go of childish notions and own up to one’s own inadequacies rather than point to the failings of others. In other words, I don’t exactly measure up to leading lady material. And, just sitting here conjuring exemplars for this argument, even my own heroes prove imperfect. If Grace Kelly had to struggle with Jimmy Stewart over his fear of commitment (Rear Window) and if Audrey Hepburn had such a tough time converting a much-older Gary Cooper from serial philandering (Love in the Afternoon), what chance do I have? Bogart is another story. Although I have yet to be a “Slim” to someone’s “Steve” (To Have and Have Not), I did have serious involvements with modern-day equivalents of Fred C. Dobbs (Treasure of the Sierra Madre) and Dixon Steele (In a Lonely Place). That’s right: one paranoid and one rage-aholic, both liable to beat the shit out of anyone over the slightest perceived insult. Really really unpleasant. The point is, we can't choose the real-life movies we star in. All we can do is hope that it doesn't end up a bloody tragedy.