In my dream last night, a particular street I know in another part of town became the bulkhead of a spaceship's black interior. Outside was a desert where people lived on mouthwash, and one had to drink a certain amount of mouthwash to go out there.
I was struck by how out of shape everyone looks in The Seven Year Itch. Lots of guys with guts, women with fleshy arms, crammed into their dresses. It seemed abnormal even for a film from the 1950s. Maybe director Billy Wilder was aiming for greater realism. Though one of the reasons the movie really doesn't work is the rather artificial technique of having the lead character talk to himself--a lot. For most of the first half hour, it's just him talking. Some of what he says is interesting and funny, but the fact of his unabatingly solitary voice holds it all back. Maybe it's just that as a performer, Tom Ewell is a bit flat. He certainly has no chemistry with Marilyn Monroe, which may be the most crucial problem in the movie. And her character has no particular arc or conflict--maybe the filmmakers didn't trust her to deliver a performance, but the only reason to watch the movie, I'm afraid, is Monroe looking beautiful. One tends to expect more from Billy Wilder.
I was sort of fascinated by the bright red socks Ewell wore. I wonder if it's still possible to get socks like that.
For some stupid reason, I decided to try switching from coffee to green tea with breakfast. Which might explain why I can barely, um. Can barely . . . think, that's it. Can barely think.