Man years ago, while exploring a warren of a used bookstore in Kutztown, PA, I came across two volumes of Hollywood RPF. Two flaking, bound volumes from 1942-43:

Ginger Rogers and the Riddle of the Scarlet Cloak by Lela E. Rogers, and
Betty Grable and the House with the Iron Shutters by Kathryn Heisenfelt.

What is RPF, you may well ask?

RPF stands for "real person fanfiction," a subset of fanfic which, instead of fictional characters, takes as its subjects actual people, usually celebrities. In the past few decades there's been a lot of angst in fan communities about the ethics of this sort of activity, and the degree to which it violates an actor or musician's right to privacy. What's fascinating about this find is the reminder that, well, it's been around a lot longer than fanfiction.net.

So what are these books like? The full text of title page for the Ginger Rogers one continues:


An original story featuring
GINGER ROGERS
famous motion-picture star
as the heroine

By LELA E. ROGERS

Illustrated by Henry E. Vallely

Authorized Edition

WHITMAN PUBLISHING COMPANY
RACINE, WISCONSIN

The verso includes: Except the authorized use of the name of Ginger Rogers, all names, events, places, and characters in this book are entirely fictitious.

I was, understandably, fascinated, so I bought them both, put them on my shelf, and promptly forget about them. Until now. Looking at them, they're that very lightweight, cheap sort of thing that I doubt would have held up in a library setting for long. I do wonder where these copies came from. (Betty Grable shows 38 copies on www.abe.com, from $3.00 to $78.97; Ginger Rogers shows 63 copies from $2.15 to $110.12, if you're curious.) The back pages list charming titles from the same publisher, segregated for girls and boys, though the page of interest reads thus:

WHITMAN AUTHORIZED EDITIONS

NEW STORIES OF ADVENTURE AND MYSTERY

Up-to-the-minute novels for boys and girls about Favorite Characters, all popular and well-known, including--

Ginger Rogers and the Riddle of the Scarlet Cloak
Deanna Durbin and the Adventure of Blue Valley
Deanne Durbin and the Feather of Flame
Ann Rutherford and the Key to Nightmare Hall
Blondie and Dagwood's Secret Service
Polly the Powers Model: The Puzzle of th Haunted Camera
Jane Withers and the Hidden Room
Bonita Granville and the Mystery of Star Island
Joyce and the Secret Squadron: A Captain Midnight Adventure
Nina and Skeezix (of "Gasoline Alley"): The Problem of the Lost Ring
Red Ryder and the Mystery of the Whispering Walls
Red Ryder and the Secret of Wolf Canyon
Smilin' Jack and the Daredevil Girl Pilot
April Kane and the Dragon Lady: A "Terry and the Pirates" Adventure

(It also mentions that "The books listed above may be purchased in the same store where you bought this book." Oh, if only that were true! Note, by the way, the fact that actresses, not the roles they play, share "Favorite Character" status with comic strip figures. In the case of most of these stars, that's probably fairly accurate.)

This website has a complete listing of the actress titles, which also include Judy Garland, Shirley Temple, Gene Tierney, and Dorothy Lamour. It also reveals that Lela E. Rogers was Ginger's mother, and lots of other stuff I don't have access to, like general information about the writing and the way in which the "real person" angle is handled. According to the site, Heisenfelt wrote half the books, all of which "read like parodies of series books":

Heisenfelt's characters nearly always encounter one or more people who are stricken by fear that is superstitious. The heroine is usually fearful as well, with the difference being that the heroine is able to control her fear enough not to make a complete fool out of herself. Every event in the story has a mysterious importance, and normal, everyday sounds, such as a shutting door or a cat's meow, are often taken to be extremely scary. The mystery usually turns out to be a fairly insignificant mystery, and in some cases would not have been a mystery had everyone communicated with each other. In short, Heisenfelt's books tend to be overly-dramatic. The entire plot of each Heisenfelt book usually occurs in a very short period of time, often in fewer than 24 hours. 

It also explains that there are two groups of stories in this loosely-defined "series": books in which the main character is in fact the actress named, and "while the heroine is identified as a famous actress, the stories are entirely fictitious and center around a mystery that convenient appears while the heroine is briefly visiting a dear friend. In some of these stories, many of the other characters fail to recognize the actress in spite of her openness about her identity!" The others are adventures where the character has the same name and looks as the actress but is, in fact, just a regular girl. Since I have one of each here, I'll see what I can see without actually reading them cover to cover.

Betty Grable and the House With the Iron Shutters

The story opens:

An April sun which had made several ineffectual attempts to appear from behind a bank of sullen clouds met suddenly with a measure of success. Long streamers of light penetrated the mended laces of a tall window, twining in a caressing halo on the golden head bent industriously over a much-scarred walnut desk. Light played over the paper, too--three sheets, closely written--and over a squat ink bottle tilted on a silver compact so that the faded black yield might be sufficient to moisten the blunt tip of a pen which many fingers had grasped.

The fingers which held it now were lovely, tapering to tips of pearl. Only one smudge marred their gentle perfection as the writer penned, "All my love, Betty."

Betty and her friend Loys Lester are sharing a hotel room, and much is made of the contrast between the blonde, glamorous Betty and dark, less rumple-proof Loys. And then there are inadvertently slashy lines like, "Considering Loys in her serviceable slip and her woolly brown cardigan, Betty grinned impishly--but swiftly, with an effort, she subdued herself and approached the bed." Or is that just me? Anyway, Betty is spotless and perfect, hard-working and even-tempered. She and Loys, a Hollywood reporter, are on vacation, during which Betty keeps getting recognized. She deals with this by denying she is Betty Grable, quite effectively it seems. But something seems amiss, and the vacation has lost some of its spontaneous luster. 

It's all rather boring, really. The writing, I mean. Clothes are invariably described, characters are referred to by hair color, and Betty stops to think about scary cat noises and looming thunderclouds before dismissing her anxieties with a (usually) figurative toss of her head. She and Loys somehow get stranded with some mysterious strangers at a mansion, where they are accused of theft and locked in a bedroom, until the whole thing is solved because someone was pretending the house was haunted. It's all very Nancy Drew/Scooby-Doo. Then I skipped to the end, where they discuss their next destination (they've been folding up a map and pointing blindly to the next stop) and one of them points out the quilt on the neatly turned-down bed and says, "There's something about a patchwork quilt... Let's do our poking right there!"


Ginger Rogers and the Riddle of the Scarlet Cloak

Ginger Rogers is not Ginger Rogers. She looks like her, talks like her, but is in fact a switchboard operator at a fancy hotel. All the men who call up love that honeyed voice! Naturally, she has an unfortunate friend who... Look, I'm just going to transcribe the whole mess because it's the clearest expression of this I've seen in a long time. Her friend Patsy wants to know why she won't go out with guests:

Ginger smiled. "I notice you never go out when you're asked, either."

"What do you mean, when I'm asked?" Patsy wanted to know. "Nobody ever asks me and you know it. I'm too wide and too short. They forgot to give ma nose and my second chin's got more character than my first one. I'm pigeon-toed and my underskirt's always hanging and there's nothing I can do about it."

As Ginger's merry laugh rang out through the little room, Patsy added, "And the name's Patsy Potts! Remember?"

Dear, comical Patsy. You laughed with her not at her. She didn't really look as bad as she painted herself. That was why it was always funny when she picked herself to pieces for the entertainment of her friends. Patsy wasn't really "too wide and too short." She was just plump, in spots. "Yeah, all the wrong spots," Patsy would say. Her underskirt didn't always hang down, just at times, and usually when Patsy was trying to make a good impression. Patsy was pretty when she "fixed herself up." But best of all to Ginger, Patsy was a true-blue friend. She was devoted to Ginger--all her dreams of romance hovered about the head of her friend, rather than about her own.

SERIOUSLY, 1942. Anyone else feeling a little sorry for the real Ginger? Her mom raised her right, I guess. Anyway, chapter two starts with a bang, literally:

Something happened the very next day that changed the whole life of Ginger Rogers. It was also destined to change the lives of all Americans, of Englishmen, of Australians, of South Americans--and of all of the inhabitants of the civilized world!

Japan treacherously attacked Pearl Harbor while her envoys were talking peace in Washington!

1942, remember? Italics are so not mine. The French-born hotel owner calls her staff together to explain that they're sending all the guests away to open up instead for the use of aircraft workers so they can be comfy while they start churning out secret weapons. Madame DuLhut, after all, doesn't want the US to roll over and give up like France did. Happily, the entire staff--even the German pastry chef, Rogers hastens to assure us--approves of this plan. The Americans who were born here "were no more enthusiastic than those others who were America's adopted children." (I guess the Japanese don't count.)

Ginger and Mme. DuLhut discuss Ginger's mom's edict that she not date rich boys (who aren't interested in marrying working girls), Ginger receives the eponymous scarlet cloak anonymously, and mother worries about her accepting such a gift. Great pains are taken to express both that girls do grow up someday, and that Mary (not Lela) Rogers did a Herculean job of raising her daughter alone.

Ginger seems to have her pick of the men, despite her lowly status. And it seems one rich aircraft manufacturing man has got round her mother's prohibition, though she really wants Ginger to marry the boy down the street. But Miles takes her to a Hollywood premiere, insisting she wear the cloak, where a strange man "with the face of Satan" keeps staring at her and mysteriously exchanges a packet of cigarettes with Miles. None of which, of course, Miles admits. At a fancy restaurant, Miles leaves her alone to take care of something, and another resident of the hotel, playboy Gregg Phillips, takes her out on the dance floor. It was, apparently, love at first phone call, despite warnings from others (her mother most especially) that Gregg is not the type of man she should know.

Of course, Miles is found injured and passed out and Ginger is soon in over her head in some sort of espionage mystery. And love story. Only Mary Rogers is harboring a SECRET reason Ginger shouldn't see Gregg:

Again Mary Rogers experienced that appalling sense of inadequacy. She was not equal to such a problem. It was all so easy when Ginger was young and needed only foo and clothing and kindness. Now she needed a guiding hand, wise and patient, and Mary felt herself deficient in both qualities.

Not Shakespeare, sure, but interesting that her fictionalized spy story about her own daughter has so much of her mother in it--and how it veers between the perfection of their relationship and its (fictional) problems. Including hiding from Ginger the truth about her father--according to wikipedia, her parents separated shortly after her birth, and her father even kidnapped her twice. And it was her mother's influence that pushed her towards the stage and Hollywood. Wiki also reports that mother and daughter were close as long as Lela lived, and that Lela was a huge influence throughout Ginger's career. How much was Lela Rogers exorcising in this little novel? How did Ginger feel about it? What on earth is going on when a mother writes RPF about her daughter, including parental conflict, a love affair, and the mother's own marital issues?

Now that is the story I want to write.

Anyway, things continue apace, with Gregg and Ginger deciding to get married after one eventful evening, Mary tossing Gregg out of the house, and the nice-guy boyfriend Patsy thought not good enough for Ginger luckily turning out to be good enough for her. Ginger trusts whom she trusts (read: likes) and suspects those she doesn't. Good rule, when you're drawn into service of your country! There is talk of a "Fifth Columnist" and some lovely writing, such as the doozy: "Indeed, there was so much to tell and yet there was nothing really definite and tangible. Everything was indefinite and intangible--that is, simply 'sort of suspicious.'"

The real-life weirdness continues when Gregg reveals that he's known Ginger's dad, Josh, his whole life. Josh Rogers is with the FBI, lives clean, and was like a second father to Gregg--which is interesting, since he doesn't seem to have been a first father to Ginger. But he's a great man, honest! Especially exciting is the fact that in real life, "Rogers" was Ginger's step-father's name, though she was never technically adopted. In fantasy-land, Gregg thinks Mary's down on rich boys because Josh used to be rich and she suspects it spoiled him and ruined their relationship--though Gregg assures Ginger that Josh never stopped loving her mother. So. Ginger's fatherless state is due to a misunderstanding, and Rogers is her real dad.

In the end, Ginger catches the real spy through her switchboard know-how, and then totally inexplicably goes off alone with him before anyone else knows what she does. She's marginally clever throughout, but relies mostly on intuition and being saved by men. At least she is a "working girl," I guess. Happily, she's rescued, Mary and Josh have an off-screen reunion, and everything's cleared up pretty much on the last page.

In short: these books are not very good. Nor did they really need to be, if you think about it. And the fascination lies not in their quality, but their existence. How did people respond to the idea of RPF back then? Was this a common practice in movie mags of the time? Who authorized the use of these personae? I haven't found a link by studio or anything like that. And what else are we missing from the history of RPF, before it got a clever name? Does it even count as such, when no effort is made to make it "real" beyond the names and likenesses?

[Light spoilers for The Man Who Killed Don Quixote]


I don't want to be too hard on Terry Gilliam.

The guy's obviously gone through a lot in his attempts to adapt Don Quixote for the past nearly 30 years, and it's evidently a miracle The Man Who Killed Don Quixote even made it to theaters for me to see. And it's fun, it's interesting in places, it has lovely performances, and I think it thinks it's saying something about the nature of identity and storytelling and filmmaking. It's about a commercial director who once made a student film about Don Quixote, who travels to the same village years later to learn that the man he'd plucked from shoe-making obscurity to play the lead is now convinced he is the medieval knight, and recruits the director as his squire, Sancho Panza.  "Wow, that's meta," I hear you say. The thing is, it's not nearly meta enough.

If you're unfamiliar with the story of Don Quixote, the original is a novel by Miguel de Cervantes from the early 1600s about a scholar who reads too many chivalric romances and decides to go knight-erranting as Don Quixote. He sees the world as he believes it should be, and thus he fights windmills he believes to be giants and rescues prostitutes he believes to be damsels. Much of the cultural legacy of Quixote is in the value of a certain type of madness, an attempt to turn an excess of realism on its head and celebrate a worldview that has an influence by being the change it wants to see. So naturally, it is ripe for metatextual play, and in fact the film version of the musical Man of La Mancha embeds the tale in a framing narrative of Cervantes telling the story himself while imprisoned, as a means of inspiring in a time of political upheaval.

So in a film that is about an actor who believes he IS Quixote, who inveigles a wayward film director into being his squire, I saw opportunity for a wide ranging commentary on storytelling, filmmaking, the line between the narratives we tell ourselves and madness, and Gilliam's own journey in trying to make this very film. It seems made for that kind of story in a way something like Adaptation frankly was not, in the sense that the very narrative he's trying to adapt bring reality and storytelling into sharp relief. It was an opportunity to do something like 2005's Tristram Shandy, itself based on another PoMo-before-Modern-was-even-a-thing novel by Laurence Sterne in which the nature of adapting the unadaptable is faced head-on. I don't mean that The Man Who Killed Don Quixote had to be deep, but I did expect it to actually make use of the elements it had set up.

But apart from having adapted Quixote, there is almost no connection between the filmmaker, Toby (played by an always exceptional Adam Driver), and the themes of madness and storytelling. At least, not in the sense that the film ever seems to get around to saying anything about his position in society as a teller of stories. And while Jonathan Pryce is a very good Quixote, we never really learn anything about what embodying this fictional knight has done for his life or his sense of self. In fact, I know no more about the characters of the original OR the adaptation than I did at the beginning. It's a romp, to be sure, and not unenjoyable. But when the very text you're adapting contains such rich fodder for an exploration of the value of telling tales, it seems remarkable un-self-aware.

This week, as everyone was freaking out about Game of Thrones, I finished season 2 of Star Trek: Discovery. Ever since, I’ve been debating how to write this, and why. It’s important to me that I love Star Trek, in its myriad forms. I’ve ruled out wanting a rehash of the old show, just as I’ve ruled out many of the reasons my facebook group is full of salt. But I am trying to understand just what isn’t working for me, so that’s what this is going to be about. The truth is, I have NOT loved every iteration of Trek instantly. Deep Space Nine is probably my favorite (tied with the original), though I find the first season almost unwatchable. I adore Voyager, but it took me awhile to get into. I never did manage to warm to Enterprise, which I thought had some good ideas and characters and design but failed to capture the spirit I wanted. And that’s generally how I feel about Discovery: that it’s trapped between two forms of television storytelling and has many great ideas that are foundering in their execution. Overall, it feels like something that is playing it too safe, even as it takes great strides to demonstrate the diversity that should be evident throughout any Trek franchise. But while the diversity is well shown, I find most of the actual writing to lean heavily on telling. We are told, over and over, how hard things are for characters. Or how important something is. I love the trials that are set up for the characters, the identity-shaking, life and love and death situations, the notion that we are here to make the galaxy better. But I hardly ever feel those conflicts. This is more evident in the voiceover narration, which is tediously high-school diary. (“Just as repetition reinforces repetition, change begets change....Sometimes the only way to find out where you fit in is to step out of the routine. Because sometimes, where you really belong was waiting right around the corner all along.”) But it happens between characters, too, as Spock looks meaningfully at a three-dimensional chess set and intones, “the board is yours, Michael.” So what am I missing? I don’t think any of the previous series are or should be a model for a new Trek. Nor do I think Trek needs to hare off into some new grimdark territory to keep up with Breaking Bad or Game of Thrones or the fake-gritty DCU. What I do think we have, here, is an attempt to have both of those things that accomplishes neither. An attempt at the old feeling (including Spock and Pike, references to uniform color, etc) while trying too hard to be profound and edgy. But the cake-and-eat-it-too attempt to hew close to established canon while doing something new and different neither feels like canon nor like anything original and fresh. It feels constrained by creators who are afraid to step too far outside two boxes that don’t have a lot of overlap. And you get a show that should be helmed by the women and actors of color who hold most of the parts, but relies on Pike and Spock for a lot of the emotional core. You get a show that doesn’t bother to tell me why I should care about Airiam until she’s dead. A show that thinks it needs Section 31 and the mirror universe to provide edge and conflict. We can argue about what Star Trek is, what elements make something “feel like” Trek. And I’ve quarreled with new interpretations before. But it’s not so much that I need Discovery to BE like DS9 or Voyager. It’s that I want it to stop feeling like it wants to be Star Wars or Mass Effect without making Trekkies mad. I want it to explore what it means to be human, or anyway part of the collective the Federation has and will become. I want it to offer a dose of optimism that we will choose to do better. And I want it to take risks. I don’t want a show with a plodding arc that literally takes us to a point where it writes itself out of existence, simply because they’ve trapped themselves in a time frame that is unworkable with the story they want to tell. If you wanted a show that doesn’t fit with the timeline or the technology already set up, maybe you aren’t writing the right show. I’m not asking for The Original Series Two. But I am saying that by wrapping itself up in a time period and with existing characters whose fates are already known, it’s constrained itself out of any sense of momentum or progress. I am hoping that, next season, this show will come into its own. There are big plot indications it might well do that. But for the first few seasons, I feel that Discovery has been hampered by a slavish attempt to replicate the wrong things about Star Trek. I hope it finds new life soon.