Joan Collins
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I
’ve been meaning to write a Spectator
diary since the summer but as a
Gemini with Aries rising I find I have
the annoying trait (just the one?) of
being too easily distracted. Not by social
media as so many are — Twittering and
Instagramming only grab my attention
for a couple of minutes each day. No,
what entrances me are movies, and the
wonderful cornucopia of films available
on Sky, Netflix, Amazon, iTunes and so
many platforms proffering my preferred
pastime on my big-screen TV. I refuse
to be hunched over a tiny screen
downloading the latest blockbuster from
Disney or DreamWorks. I search for and
find, like an eager fisherman, the classics:
Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca
(I’ve seen it 50 times at least), Kelly
and Reynolds in Singin’ in the Rain
(40 times), Davis and Henreid in Now,
Voyager, Grant and Kelly in To Catch
a Thief (not so many times — it’s not a
repeater like the others) and hundreds
more. Every time I become glued to
the great films of the Golden Era I
notice so many new things, particularly
the reactions of the supporting and
background performers.
I
’ve tried to watch the latest batch
of potential Oscar contenders sent
to me by the Academy and Bafta; the
stack of DVDs we attempted to wade
through during the Christmas season is
now three-feet high. Talk about snooze-
making! I pulled off some high-quality
naps watching some of these boring
bombs. I am not alone in my opinion
that many of them are dull, pretentious
and preachy; most are far too long
and drawn out, and many of my fellow
Oscar voters are bemoaning the lack of
a good solid product. Hollywood will
probably despise me for saying this but
when I watch a motion picture I want
to be entertained, kept interested and
intrigued. Romance, charm and style
seem to have been replaced by brutal
violence, revolting profanity or far-
fetched and alien plotlines. No wonder
box-office takings are way down.
T
he flu season is raging and I myself
was struck down with the virus on a
plane to Dubai as I travelled to perform
my one-woman show at the opera house
in December. In spite of having had a flu
shot, which protects one from the virus’s
deathly A-strain, apparently one can still
succumb to the less serious but still awful
B-strain, which I unfortunately contracted.
But the show must go on, so I staggered
on to the stage, the words of my ex about
the roar of the greasepaint ringing in my
ears, and managed to get through it, in spite
of several coughing fits. Back in London
I took to my bed like a Victorian lady
with a case of the swoons — legs shaky as
spaghetti, ribs aching from a hacking cough.Bed-bound for a fortnight, I missed
several amusing Christmas parties and
almost felt that the end was near. (I’m
an actress — you have to expect some
drama.) A few weeks later, on the flight
from London to LA, I was adamant on
blocking the airvent above me with duct
tape and swabbing my seat and media
screen vigorously with disinfectant wipes.
Now I wear gloves whenever possible to
protect myself against virulent germs —
it may appear eccentric but just wait till I
put on that surgical mask. I avoid shaking
hands, much less this ghastly fad of
kissing and hugging strangers as if they’re
pals. Dining at a popular restaurant,
the maître d’ was shaking hands with
the patrons and when he came over
to me, all Uriah Heep-like, proffering
his appendage — his hand, I mean —
I refused to shake it as I imagined it
covered in germs. He was quite offended
but my doctor told me that lightning can
strike twice.H
ollywood is in an uproar. Some
actresses have discovered that
some actors and producers are nasty
sexual predators. Oh really? Expressing
an opinion about this is fraught with
danger, so I shall refrain before it’s ‘off
with her head’ to me. Nevertheless, if
these accusations towards men continue
much longer, I fear a major decline in
population growth in the near future.
An agent I know, who was negotiating a
deal for a client, was accused by a female
producer of being ‘a bully’ and warned
that she was going to expose him because
‘Hollywood doesn’t like bullies’. If she
really wanted to know what a bully was
like, she should have dealt with super-
agent Sue Mengers. A play about her was
aptly named I’ll Eat You Last.A
30-year-old single man informs me
that he wouldn’t consider dating
because he was too scared of being
accused of inappropriate behaviour or
of being ‘named and shamed’ by social
media or the Twitterati. ‘I go out with
the guys, drink beer and watch box sets,’
he said ruefully, ‘and friends are doing
the same. We’re scared of the #MeToo
movement and of being accused of
sexual harassment and worse if we even
tell a girl she’s pretty.’ ‘In my day we
called it flirting,’ I told him.