The Name of the Game
Woody Allen has finished another movie, and the cake at the wrap party, shaped like a movie clapboard, bore the legend WASP ’81. Has Woody broken tradition and finally named a movie in advance? Not quite. WASP means Woody Allen’s Summer Project. Woody’s sidekick Tony Roberts says it’s just as well the flick is still without a title because Allen changes his mind so often. Annie Hall, for example, “was supposed to be called Anhedonia, because its original theme was about a guy unable to enjoy life.” But the earliest test audiences were more interested in the love story than the hero’s griping, and so a classic was born.
If the Bid Fits
Shoe prices are high, sure, but those hand-sequined silk slippers that an anonymous California buyer snapped up at a Christie’s auction this month for $12,000 are out of sight. The ruby slippers supposedly are one of three pairs (one is in the Smithsonian) made for Judy Garland for the movie The Wizard of Oz. But Garland’s daughter Lorna Luft is saying Judy probably never wore them. The auctioned slippers are a size 5, while Judy’s feet were an even more delicate 3, Lorna explains. She believes that the bigger shoes might have been worn by the Wicked Witch of the East when she was flattened by Dorothy’s Kansas farmhouse. Since the Wicked Witch of the East was never seen in the movie except from the knees down, the $12,000 shoes might well have been worn by a mere extra, or maybe even a mannequin.
Life’s Little Boots
Honestly, when you’re a Senator and a millionaire and married to an itinerant star of stage and screen, life can get awfully hectic. Tiny details like paying off one’s parking tickets can be overlooked. And so it happened that the Washington, D.C. police put a boot (a kind of wheel manacle) on the proletarian little yellow jeep that John Warner uses to ferry Liz Taylor out to their Virginia farm on weekends. (They hate to get the Mercedes muddy.) In D.C, the boot is used when a car’s owner has piled up at least four parking tickets. Warner never suspected he’d been tagged that often, an aide protests. Apparently his children, who’d been using the vehicle, never mentioned the tickets they’d received. After the young Warners had been grounded, a spokesman for the Senator diplomatically praised the city’s finest. Giving parkers the boot is “the one thing the District does efficiently across the board,” he chuckled, “no matter who you are.”
Robert Slater’s new book about Golda Meir (Golda: The Uncrowned Queen of Israel) reveals at least one rather unroyal blemish on the late Prime Minister’s behavior. One problem she could never face, he writes, is her mongoloid granddaughter, Meira Meyerson, now 26. In her memoirs, Mrs. Meir wrote of five grandchildren, not six, and for years Meira’s official existence had been no more than a rumor. The result has been personal difficulty for Meira, who now lives in an Israeli home for the retarded. When she heard that her existence had gotten into print, she expressed relief. “At last, thank God, this book has been published,” she said, “because all the people who laughed at me, who made fun of me, and who did not believe all these years that I was the granddaughter of Golda Meir will now know that I was telling the truth.”
Dick Vermeil’s mother (he coaches the Philadelphia Eagles) is upset that he doesn’t mouth “Hi, Mom” at the TV cameras as players do during between-play close-ups. “Most of the time I don’t even know I’m on television,” he defends himself, but rather weakly. On second thought, says the coach, worriedly: “I sure hope she doesn’t read my lips when I’m on camera.”