Faculty Destinations: Philadelphia with Cahoon Family Professor of American History Patrick Allitt was another successful event for our alumni in Eastern Pennsylvania and southern New Jersey.

Guests arrived at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, registered, enjoyed a wine and cheese reception in the seminar room, and moved over to the auditorium for Allitt's enlightening lecture, “Picasso in Paris.” Afterward, those who had not seen the exhibit yet were able to take a guided tour with Allitt.

I do feel compelled to write about my trip getting to the museum, though. I had attended the Salman Rushdie event in New York the night before and needed a quick and easy way to get to Philadelphia. An alumna had told me about the BoltBus, which runs between NYC to Philadelphia. I checked it out online and it seemed simple enough, so I reserved a round trip ticket. I left New York at 2:30 p.m. with an expected arrival time of 4:30 p.m. in Philadelphia.

Everything was going great for me in my oversized leather seat by the window (which included free wi-fi and a power outlet for my laptop). Then, we arrived in Philadelphia.

I thought Atlanta had the worst traffic known to mankind, but it is nothing compared to traffic on a Friday afternoon in Philadelphia when living legend Wayne Shorter is performing at the Philadelphia Museum of Art at 5:00 p.m.!

Once the bus crept through the streets to the bus stop, I hopped in a cab to the museum. There I sat in a sea of traffic along with the other 2,000 people trying to get to the museum by 5:00 p.m.

Traffic was barely moving.

I sat…I sat…and I sat.

What made the situation so frustrating was that the BoltBus had passed the museum on the way in. The cab ride was not supposed to be a long trip, mileage wise. I could still see the museum sitting on the hill taunting me like a kid wanting me to chase after them, “na na na na boo boo you can’t catch me!” I finally made it to the museum around 5:40 p.m. with just enough time to setup before everyone started arriving.

My unfortunate battle with the clock did not end there. Afterward, I waited ... and waited for a cab outside the museum, but not a single one came by. The taxis must have not been able to get through the traffic jam at the bottom of the hill. I desperately needed to get to the bus stop to catch my bus back to NYC, so I just started walking in that general direction, not really knowing where I was headed. Luckily, I stumbled upon a cab at a stoplight, which saved me from having to try my luck at hitchhiking.

All of that rushing around in an unfamiliar city reminds me of one of my favorite television shows, “The Amazing Race.” Coincidentally, one of the competitors this season, Jordan Pious 09B, is a recent Emory graduate; he and his brother Dan are still in the race.

Each week I sit in the comfort of my living room watching the show and I tell myself that “I know I could win the race.”

After all, I love to travel, right? My trip to Philadelphia has enlightened me! I now see that there’s definitely a difference in leisure travel and business travel. Knowing that I have to be somewhere at a specific time and being at the mercy of someone else with uncontrollable factors is much more stressful than just wanting to get to my resort as quick as I can so that I can get a head start on my tan.

I have a new-found respect for all of the contestants on “Amazing Race.” It really is that difficult navigating in an unfamiliar city when you're pressed for time.

-- Michael Parker, program coordinator, alumni programs, EAA

Signs point to ... a lot of places. The campus at Oxford College is compact, so it's tough to get lost, but if for some reason you get turned around, we have nice signage to point you in the right direction.

Those of us without tickets to the TCM Classic Film Festival were still fortunate enough to spend a night out at the theater.

New York's Hudson Theatre, specifically. Sandwiched between 44th and 45th Streets, the theatre is just a chip shot away from Times Square. That's where Booker Prize-winning (and Emory Distinguished Writer in Residence) Sir Salman Rushdie headlined an EAA Faculty Destinations event on Thursday, April 22.

So, I am back in Atlanta and no longer experiencing “Hollywood moments.” Should this term, “Hollywood moments,” require any definition, here is a quintessential “moment” that happened to us on the last day of the TCM film festival.

On Sunday night, following the screening of Metropolis (1927), a final party took place at the Roosevelt Hotel. We walked over from Grauman’s to find a sea of people swimming through the lobby. Partly in self-defense, we squeezed ourselves into an anteroom between the main lobby area and the Roosevelt’s bar. Suddenly an attractive young woman in a terribly short dress came running in the front door. She nearly stampeded David McClurkin 74C and me, literally pushed us aside, and for what?

She was not a festival organizer needing to convey something of tactical importance to another festival organizer. She was not even a passholder or a resident of the hotel. Why, then, was she pushing people aside as if a theater were on fire? Simple. She needed to use the mirror.

Yes, the mirror.

For the next five minutes, she tousled her hair, then just as quickly as she blazed in, she stampeded out in her suede boots. Our toes were still tingling from being stepped on, but we were laughing despite the pain. That, my friends, is a Hollywood moment. And I suspect that this one actually ranks fairly low in the outrageousness department compared to some.

Strange as it seems to say, I am almost sad to give up those moments—not to mention these blog postings. The reactions to the festival, which began to bubble up in earnest on the last day, were interesting. For Paige Parvin 96G and me especially, as graduates of Emory’s Film Studies program, there was nothing ordinary about this festival. It was a unique opportunity; and we are grateful to our VP, Ron Sauder, for understanding that—beyond the mirror gazing—serious work is done on that other coast and that we were there to do some. For Genevieve McGillicuddy 96G, the appreciations went beyond what even Paige and I could muster.

Participants told her and Paige (Genevieve’s eyes and ears) about what this festival meant in a way that was surprising and emotional. For one man, it was a reason not to kill himself. For another participant, it got her through a bout of cancer. For yet another participant, TCM the network and then the festival got her through a year of unemployment. If you think about it, TCM has assembled a vast array of supporters for classic cinema that has been united, to this point, only by tuning into the same film on their televisions at the same time. That is community of a sort, but not the highest-order community.

In the main auditorium at the historic Grauman’s Theatre, we all sat together—roughly 1,100 of us. Seeing the restored A Star Is Born (1954) and all the films that followed wasn’t something that I could watch on my iPad. I was elbow to elbow with my fellow viewers. And what happens in that darkened space is much more than the sum of actions on the screen. Indeed, the applause at the end was as much for the delight we took in one another’s company as for the actors.

I already miss it, but I have a day job to which I must return. Again, I thank everyone who made a contribution: the impressive alumni in the industry who granted us interviews (please stay tuned for the fruits of those conversations in the summer Emory Magazine), the high-achieving alumni who came out to our networking reception on Saturday night, and—finally—to Genevieve, who surely is passed out somewhere from exhaustion. Shhh. Let her rest.

Out of deference to Genevieve, I will whisper my parting lines. In a festival replete with (to borrow TCM’s favorite term) “classic” lines, one of the best I heard was this one. During the panel “Casting Secrets,” one of the audience members quoted Milton Berle, who offered the following advice to actors: “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.” Words to live by—in Hollywood or anywhere.

Read part 5; Read part 4; Read part 3; Read part 2; Read part 1

-- Susan Carini 04G, executive director, Emory Creative Group

I liken the TCM festival to summer camp. For four days now, we have worn the same T-shirts and shared bug spray. At this point, we all have a good idea of who we don’t want to get stuck eating lunch with.

For starters, there was the woman so obsessed with Norman Lloyd that, in today’s session after the screening of Saboteur (1942), she clapped every time he said a word, including uneventful and small words such as “and” or “the.” At the end, she stood and shouted “bravo” over and over. I am pretty sure that if she had had bug spray, she would have doused him with it, wanting to be helpful, of course.

So, what am I getting at? Merely this—that all the good manners at the start inevitably begin to fray. Yesterday afternoon at Leave Her to Heaven (1946), I could have clobbered the old ladies next to me. They piped up every time Gene Tierney did something selfish or evil, which was nearly every second of the 110-minute running time.

If you can believe it, even the popcorn that looked so welcome to our big eyes on opening night was waning in popularity. I heard a woman leave a screening today and lament to her friend, “I’m just not doing well on this popcorn and Coke diet.” To boot, the panelists—who look so distinguished on paper—were starting to seem more gossipy and less on point (not that gossipy is ever truly bad; it’s darned interesting).

Beyond the unraveling of good manners due to tiredness, there is the fact of just plain oversaturation. TCM attracted a large group of people who love the movies with uncommon passion, yet a man at Saboteur snored through the screening, despite the fact that the women all around me, who were strangers to him, kept taking turns poking him.

When I first had spied the three-and-a-half-hour showing of Cleopatra (1963) on the roster for Sunday morning, my attitude was “just try and stop me. I’m there.” As the morning dawned, wild horses could not have dragged me into that theater. I suddenly remembered that I can hardly bear to see a headshot of the frowsy Liz Taylor in the tabloids anymore.

Silliness is another unflattering byproduct of doing the same thing for four days. The most heavily promoted film in town right now is A Nightmare on Elm Street. As David McClurkin 74C and I stood in line for popcorn tonight, we were aware that some of our compatriots were getting buckets of popcorn with a very nifty cardboard version of the Krueger claw in them. I suddenly wanted one with all the urgency that a child wants a pacifier. We ordered a large popcorn, thinking that we would get one. The clerk shoved a huge bag at us.

“Where’s the claw?” I demanded. Turns out you had to get a medium popcorn. (Go figure.) Patrons behind us grew restive. But I had to have the claw. Once inside the theater, I gave the claw its own seat and seemed to have enough of a crazy glint in my eyes that no one asked the claw to give up its seat.

Yes, the people dressed like Shrek, Spidey, and Marilyn on the sidewalk outside Grauman’s looked even sadder on day four than on day one, but the closing screening of the festival returned us to our best selves. At the final film, no one snored or talked or complained about the popcorn. Instead, just as happened on opening night, we were enchanted.

The last screening was of Metropolis (1927), a film that marks a gap in my own cinema education. I am darn glad that I waited. What we saw tonight was an impeccably restored version of this groundbreaking film, complete with the brilliance of the Alloy Orchestra, which is listed in the program as “North America’s premier silent film accompanists.” Believe the claim.

Between the hours of seven and ten Sunday night, all the magic and majesty of film returned. You could have heard a pin (or a claw) drop. The audience applauded the end of every major section of the film, then went wild at the end. When Robert Osborne announced that TCM has decided to repeat the festival next year, there was bedlam.

I am hoping that, from his place on stage, Osborne could see the claw held high.

Read part 6; Read part 4; Read part 3; Read part 2; Read part 1

-- Susan Carini 04G, executive director, Emory Creative Group

Last night we were well removed from the glitter. We gathered at a watering hole on West Sunset that frankly wasn’t even up to the standards of Buckhead or Virginia Highlands. But you know what? An even more potent kind of star power shone there last night.

David McClurkin 74C, Paige Parvin 96G, and I met with a group of fellow alumni at a networking reception. The style of dress was mostly jeans and wrinkled shirts for the guys, better for the women. All our guests kindly tolerated the clichés of this networking reception: the fishbowl into which they were supposed to drop their business cards and the table with Emory literature, etc.

The point is, no one was stylin’. No one acted as if they were in the middle of a screen test or a pitch. They were open, friendly, and smart. When they heard the problem we had set before them—how to begin getting product placements for Emory—they dug right in. “Thought of this?” What about that?” A moderate temblor of ideas took place at Cat ‘n’ Fiddle; the fish bowl was rattling.

David, as the business-development guy, shook every hand. I, as the reclusive writer, shook fewer, but those I did, I really enjoyed. (Really.) Brian Zager 06B (above right) was our host. He has gone on to do a master’s at USC in producing. I also met Roger Green 06C (above left) of William Morris Endeavor and Josh Small 04C of Alcon Entertainment. Alcon is an independent film company aligned with Warner Bros. We know that capable people work there. Why? Their last film was The Blind Side (2009).

Had I stared into the fishbowl, I could recite every name. Alas, I cannot. However, I can tell you this: every one of these engaging alumni was still interested in Emory and graciously willing to accept our hors d’oeuvres as payment for all their good thinking.

David passed out, as he calls it, “Emory swag” for the assembled. By that act alone, we have ratcheted up product placement tenfold over what it was the day we arrived—two sweatshirts, his and mine.

With the help of Genevieve McGillicuddy 96G, the festival organizer, we had arranged for a showing after the reception. Though Paige had lobbied for The Graduate (1967) for our graduates, instead we got permission for Singin’ in the Rain (1952). Most alumni politely begged off the screening, saying that they had seen the film. And, truth be told, I got the strong impression that this sharp group—equal parts entrepreneurial and creative—has more of a yen for active doing than passive viewing.

To everyone who attended, thanks so much for leaving with a homework assignment and for embracing our swag with something close to wild enthusiasm. David told me that Mark Goffman 90C (yes, the Mark Goffman of The West Wing, The Beast, and Law and Order: Special Victims Unit) wanted to leave wearing an Emory hat. David raced to lop off the tag. We cannot have Mark Goffman (the Mark Goffman) on the streets of West Sunset with a tag hanging in his eyes.

While our alumni dashed off to draw up a business plan for our new venture, David and I succumbed to the lure of passive viewing. Just for a couple of hours. The 10:00 p.m. showing at the festival was an un-missable chapter from our own youth: Saturday Night Fever (1977). I, who normally (as David says) sit like a statue in movies, straining to catch every word, was tapping my feet pretty boisterously to the music. As were the many other fans of the Bee Gees.

You might recall the now-legendary way the film opens: with Travolta swaggering down a Brooklyn street carrying a can of paint to his place of business. David has promised me that he will learn to walk like that.

A word to the wise: first ditch the Hush Puppies.

Read part 6; Read part 5; Read part 3; Read part 2; Read part 1

-- Susan Carini 04G, executive director, Emory Creative Group

Photo by Jon Rou

Today I heard more stars speak than a Dalmatian has spots. Fritz Lang. George Cukor. Jimmy Stewart. Orson Welles. “Hitch.”

Wait, that’s not quite true. They were all being channeled through the same mouth—that of Peter Bogdanovich. He sat down with critic Leonard Maltin for a conversation, and what a talk it was. Though Bogdanovich was one of the young rebels of 1970s filmmaking—along with Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, and others—he also has the distinction of being one of the cinema’s most eminent historians. He has published widely, including portraits of Orson Welles and John Ford.

His history lessons go down easier than most because he is a talented mimic. And achingly funny. Maltin had the easy part. All he had to do was mention a well-known Hollywood name or film. Then Bogdanovich would say, “Can I tell a story?” At the end of the hour, with the audience hanging on every word, Bogdanovich was still asking that question, still spinning yarns.

From talk of Tatum O’Neal’s “lettuce cigarettes” (which she smoked at the tender age of eight) to describing the time that his house guest Orson Welles put a lit cigar in his robe and nearly started the entire mansion on fire, Bogdanovich had us in the palm of his hand. David McClurkin 74C and I had left a poolside table at the Roosevelt Hotel (above) to come to that conversation, but we didn’t want to go back for all the free appetizers in the world. We were tempted to lock the doors from the inside.

One of the best stories in Bogdanovich’s repertoire was about Hitch. Bogdanovich describes meeting Hitch and his wife at a New York hotel. After several frozen daiquiris, none of the parties was feeling any pain. They then were headed out to dinner, so they got in the elevator. The conversation had revolved around usual topics until the first time the doors opened and other guests got on. Hitch started talking (imagine the accent, of course): “It was an awful sight. The man was bleeding from his mouth and ears, limbs akimbo.” All other conversation ceased in the elevator. Each time the elevator stopped and new guests stepped in, he ratcheted up the crime scene in greater graphic detail. When they got to the lobby, no one wanted to get off. They knew it was Hitch.

Bogdanovich, who usually didn’t drink, was completely befuddled. As they walked out of the hotel, he asked, “Who was the man?” Hitch waved him off, saying, “You have heard of elevator speeches? Well, that was mine.”

Bogdanovich is not the only funny man whose company I had the pleasure of today. As David and I walked to the Roosevelt Friday morning, we came upon what clearly was some sort of media event associated with the festival. A growing crowd milled around. It eventually became clear that a new star was being dedicated on the Walk of Stars. With the delightful dry wit for which he is known, David said: “I’m pretty sure the star must be for Lindsay Lohan, honoring her for her life’s work.”

Peter, meet David.

Read part 6; Read part 5; Read part 4; Read part 2; Read part 1

-- Susan Carini 04G, executive director, Emory Creative Group

Photo by Jon Rou