HOUSE OF THE BRAVE

LETTERS

David Halberstam does it again; Cimino, skin-deep; Liza’s uplifting encore; Sid Bass, a class act; the brotherhood of September 11; Lady Apsley defends her name; Gore Vidal fires back-so does Dominick!

I have never been so moved by a magazine article [“Of Fire and Men,” by David Halberstam, March]. As the daughter of an 89-year-old retired New York City fireman, I was raised in the culture of the F.D.N.Y. My father believed he had the greatest job in the world, and he loved going to work. As children we spent much time at his firehouse. We slid down the pole, sat on the truck and rang the bell, wore the helmets and boots. When my father got off the bus after work the kids in the neighborhood would run to him, begging for the “fireman’s carry.” I was so proud of him. He taught us to trust firemen, and to go to a firehouse if we were ever lost or in trouble. And he was right.

Halberstam’s article made me remember the brotherhood that my father is a part of, and made the brave men of Engine 40, Ladder 35, come alive. I only wish his words could actually bring them back. I was visiting New York on September 11. From my hotel room in SoHo, I saw the World Trade towers burning. When the first building collapsed I watched in horror because I knew there were firemen in there. I prayed they had all gotten out, but I knew they hadn’t. Firemen don’t leave the building until everyone else is out.

AFTER READING ABOUT two pages of David Halberstam's article, I had to stop and consider whether I could even bear to continue.

I honestly didn't know if I could take the heartbreak that was sure to come. In the end, I read every word, stopping only to put my head down and sob.

Many thanks to the author for conveying, simply yet powerfully, the very essence of each man from Engine 40, Ladder 35, who died that day. Halberstam painted a beautiful portrait of 12 men who were clearly heroes in their everyday lives, not just on that fateful day. I feel honored to have learned more about the lives of these men.

JENNIFER WATSON Incline Village, Nevada

I called my father that day and said, “Thank God you’re not still on the job, Daddy.” He said, very sincerely, “I wish I was still on the job.” I’m sure that he wishes that every day.

KATE WALL GANZ Santa Fe, New Mexico

AS A LIFELONG New Yorker, I wanted to tell you how moved I was by the two stories on firemen in the March issue.

Eve spent too long underestimating the amazing sacrifice our public servants make and how poorly we reward them for their efforts.

Congratulations on your treatment of this painful subject, and for continuing to remind us all, in a quiet and elegant way, of the people who make our lives safer and more pleasant in this vast and ever complex metropolis.

CHARLES AVERY FISHER New York, New York

MY COUSIN WAS a member of Engine 40, Ladder 35, who died in the tragedy. It really made me and my family very proud to see all of the heroes from that house honored in your magazine.

PETER C. ROBERTS Chandler, Arizona

DAVID HALBERSTAM’S ARTICLE was heartbreaking and breathtaking, but to me what really made that article were those 12 small photographs of the heroes of 40/35. I found myself flipping back to that page at the start of each section that told the story of another brave man. I studied their faces, committing them to memory so I could think of them every time I pass a firehouse, or go down to Ground Zero, or look across the river and see that those great towers really are gone. The article is a remarkable example of the power of the marriage of word and image.

JARRETT A. LOBELL New York, New York

HALBERSTAM HAS DONE it again. He’s simply the best at doing what he does. Is he a national treasure or what?

GARY BLEVINS North Whidbey Island, Washington

CIMINOVILLE

I WAS A LITTLE DISMAYED by your piece on Michael Cimino [“Michael Cimino’s Final Cut,” by Steve Garbarino, March], a man who’s been out of the limelight for so long that he deserves a decent retrospective profile. You imply that he is reclusive and poker-faced (“[he] smiles a rare smile”), but the man I met at the Venice Film Festival last year was genial, hilarious, and full of stories, making time to sign autographs whether people wanted them or not. I’m not so naive as to think he was always like that, but I think your reporter is being a little disingenuous.

You dwell, for example, on the fact that Heaven’s Gate was a flop. Perhaps at the time—which was before video and DVD. Cimino says it’s now in profit. Has anyone checked the figures lately? I’d like to know. And how about some more recent reviews of the film, now that the dust has settled? It’s time the movie was seen for what it is, not what it did. And what about The Deer Hunter? Or Thunderbolt and Lightfoof. Don’t tell me he won’t discuss them, because I know firsthand that he will.

Instead, we hear that boring old rumor about Cimino’s being a pre-op transsexual. Be honest: how old is that? I’d say at least five or six years. And whom do you wheel out to back it up? “Three Hollywood agents and publicists.” Words fail me! To my mind, Vanity Fair stands for time-honored standards in journalism and photography, one of the few magazines still to do so. But Cimino’s planned return to directing, with Man’s Fate, is dealt with in just a few lines, as if the project were, at best, shaky and, if it does happen, will likely be a complete farce.

DAMON WISE London. England

“MICHAEL CIMINO’S FINAL CUT”was compelling, but invites the question: What planet is he from? No wonder he can’t get anyone to bankroll his projects—this self-described macho man is a weirdo. He’s not David Lynch weird or even Michael Jackson weird, but lives far beyond that in his own universe, in which he appears to make things up as he goes along. He has basically carved both his past and his face into something he believes is more exotic and attractive than reality.

TERRILL PROVINCE Edmond, Oklahoma

MICHAEL CIMINO’S LONG and involved explanations about the rumormongering girlfriend and his dates with the “Persian girl,” “Asian girl,” and “French girl” had me giving them as much credence as I do Michael Jackson’s claim to a longstanding relationship with Brooke Shields. At the same time, I really don’t care about whom he’s sleeping with and what he’s done to his chin.

N. J. MORTON Hamilton, Ontario

TOP BASS

I WAS DELIGHTED by Suzanna Andrews’s article on Sid Bass [“Betting the Kingdom,” March],

It is extremely rare nowadays to hear any sort of favorable commentary about the titans of finance. Amid the current barrage of white-collar improprieties, involving everything from federal energy policies to the art business, it is refreshing to see that an old-school, quiet, handshake dealmaker like Sid Bass is still around. Anyone working at his level will have an occasional dip in fortune. Perhaps Mr. Bass had a liquidity problem. Perhaps he was shoring up cash for a very rainy day.

More probable, however, is that he had obligations or margin calls which he chose to honor. Mr. Bass’s integrity remains intact, which is more than can be said for our friends at Enron and Sotheby’s.

JEFFREY C. GILLESPIE Bel Air, California

FIRE IN THE LENS

MANY THANKS to Gedeon and Jules Naudet for sharing with their hearts as well as their cameras such a raw and emotional experience [“Bond of Brothers,” by David Friend, March]. I am thankful not only for their very survival on that horrific, breathless day but also for their ability to tell the story as filmmakers, brothers, friends, and citizens of New York. The footage will be an everlasting testament to what occurred on September 11, and to the moving camaraderie shared uniquely by brothers.

ANNE SLUCK Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

TO THE MANNERS BORN

I FEEL I MUST respond to your article of last autumn on the Prince of Wales Foundation, in which I was mentioned [“A Court of His Own,” by Bob Colacello, October 2001]. I was deeply hurt by Mr. Colacello’s description of my physical appearance, when he described me as “a big, unkempt woman in a frayed red sweater and well-worn jeans,” as well as by further characterizations of my ensuing behavior.

Whilst I would not claim to be a size 8, I am certainly not “big” or “unkempt,” and the clothing Mr. Colacello described simply does not appear in my wardrobe! In fact, I look ghastly in red, and, furthermore, I wouldn’t dream of attending such an auspicious occasion so casually dressed! I was present at the day’s polo, but wearing what I thought to be rather

a pretty pink twinset, with a pink floral flowing skirt. I was obviously horribly wrong and shall endeavor to give it away immediately!

Whilst my pride will no doubt recover from the physical insults, I am unable to ignore Mr. Colacello’s claims to our supposed conversation. First, I would never, ever, greet strangers—and such glamorous ones at that—with the words “I’m Lady Apsley. We own this place.” It paints a picture of an ill-mannered, pigheaded, and pompous British aristocrat with a penchant for showing off possessions, and I am, I hope, the exact opposite. Furthermore, in this country one would always present oneself with a Christian name and surname—it is extremely bad form to use one’s title as a form of introduction.

Moreover, the quote itself is completely inaccurate: we do not own the polo club—it is still very much in the control of my husband’s father, the Earl Bathurst, so why on earth would I say such a thing?

Although Lord Apsley and I do now live in the main family house, we always have taken, and always will, the view that we are merely the custodians of an astonishingly beautiful piece of Gloucestershire, with family traditions dating back centuries. We are lucky enough to live in privileged surroundings, but they are just that, an enormous privilege, and we would never boast about, or claim to own, something that does not belong to us.

Last, and just as important, Mr. Colacello quotes my “comments” on His Royal Highness the Prince Harry’s polo skills, and whilst the words may be complimentary, I was not the author. I still know very little about the game of polo, so I would not feel qualified to judge anyone’s skill, and I most certainly would never presume to comment (especially to a journalist) about either Prince William or Prince Harry—in any context. It is simply not done, and I hope that a careless piece of reporting from an American, who frankly should know better, will not be misconstrued, labeling me as someone to whom people can turn for royal “tidbits.”

I feel most strongly about these three points, which is why I am taking the unusual step of writing to you, and I am very grateful to you for setting the record straight by printing this letter.

THE LADY APSLEY Cirencester Park, England

CONTINUED ON PAGE 66

THE RAINBOW'S EDGE

JONATHAN VAN METER’S article on Liza Minnelli had me rolling in the aisle [“Looking for the Rainbow,” March]! In these days of buff superstars, it’s great to know we still have a gal like Liza who can bring us back to the pill-poppin’ days of Marilyn and Judy. And a wedding, yet, with Liz and Michael Jackson! Fellini couldn’t have cast it better. The circus is back in town!

CHARLES BARAN New York, New York

HOW NICE FOR Judy Garland fan Jonathan Van Meter, who has only “recently” become interested in Liza Minnelli, to feel so superior to his subject. Though Minnelli seems to have welcomed Mr. Van Meter with open arms, some thanks he has given her: a negative spin on every facet of her life, including her very real health problems and her spectacular (if erratic) career, which recently included a triumphant—not, as Van Meter says, “disastrous”—return to Broadway, in Minnelli on Minnelli. Liza Minnelli is incredibly gifted. She has created some of the most original film and stage work of the 20th century. She deserves to be respected, not sneered at.

LAURIE LYND Toronto, Ontario

I HAD THE PLEASURE of meeting Liza Minnelli two years ago in San Francisco while she was touring with her show Minnelli on Minnelli. We happened to be at the same nightclub, and I walked right up and started chatting with her about her upcoming performance. She was very approachable and personable. At the time I didn’t have the money to pay for a ticket to see the show.

“You can’t afford to see the show?” she asked me pointedly when I told her I wouldn’t be attending. Without missing a beat, she turned to the man next to her and told him my story. “What can we do?” It was more of a statement than a question.

To my delight, I was told that there would be a ticket waiting for me at the stage door on opening night. I didn’t expect that at all and was completely surprised by the gesture. The show was terrific, and I will always be very thankful to Liza for being so wonderful to me, a complete stranger.

Nowhere in Jonathan Van Meter’s article did I find the kind, giving woman I met. Instead he made her out to be an empty-headed cartoon character. So what if she’s love-struck and giddy? After all the obstacles she’s overcome, Liza Minnelli is entitled to some happiness.

RUBEN ALCALA Hayward, California

“LOOKING FOR THE RAINBOW”was like watching All About Eve—only it was more over the top. I love the scene in which the servant removes one cigarette from Liza’s mouth and replaces it with another. If you put that in a movie today, no one would believe it. Thanks for the guts to write this story, warts and all. That is why I continue to buy Vanity Fair.

SUSAN PARKER San Francisco, California

VIDAL SIGNS

AT A BEVERLY HILLS dinner party, duly noted in your Diarist’s March contribution [“Tabloid Trouble,” by Dominick Dunne], as we listened to Diarist tell us in grave, morally outraged tones about the “crime and criminality among the rich and the very rich,” an area, he confessed, “dear to my heart,” I wondered why he should be so concerned with the doings of people unknown to him and, with few exceptions, to the nontabloid world. What attracts him? The fact that they are rich or very rich? I can see how murder would attract the professional interest of the late Agatha Christie, who made puzzles for our delight. But Diarist is more interested in who got what money and in Celebrity, particularly his own. A stroll in Ulan Bator and he is recognized by a bejeweled woman who whispers in Le Cirque French that she feels she can trust anyone who has appeared so often on the Regis Philbin show. “Meet me at the Saint Germain Berlitz school avril le premier sans fail. I know who murdered ...” A name unknown to his readers is dropped.

As Diarist droned on, with an occasional minatory bark, “Are you hearing me?,” I recalled a conversation of nearly 30 years ago. Diarist’s brother John Gregory Dunne is a serious novelist with a liking for ideas. We spoke of families. His and mine. Of tribal notions that he was, years later, to expand on in Harp, about Irish Roman Catholic Americans. I repeated to him an observation of Louis Auchincloss, a Wasp novelist who writes about the Wasp establishment of Manhattan, which, contrary to legend, still runs our financial life. Louis also deals in the intricacies of the most taboo subject in American life, class. We both agreed that the writers who dealt with this core matter in an illuminating way were those writers of Irish origin, starting with the master Henry James, and, in our time, Scott Fitzgerald, John O’Hara, Mary McCarthy. “Why?” we wondered. The answer came from a mutual friend, the critic Thomas Quinn Curtis. “It’s because our grandmothers were all maids and we were brought up wanting to know what was really going on in the upstairs parlor.” This was a joke, but like all good jokes it has resonancewitness Diarist’s shrill off-key response. I tried to tell him the story in the hope that he might put to better use all those years of climbing about the jungle gym of American society, but he was off on a non sequitur. “Then Gary Condit announced that he was going to run for office again ... I have to tell you that made me crazy.” Yes. And Lit’s a hard sell.

GORE VIDAL Ravello, Italy

DIARIST REPLIES: That’s about as bitchy a letter as I’ve read in a long time, Gore. Very 50s. It’s right up there with your witticism that Truman Capote’s death was a good career move for him. You may have had that high-flown talk 30 years ago about Irish writers like Fitzgerald, O’Hara, and the master, as you call Henry James, but that has absolutely nothing whatever to do with what I called your slur about Irish Catholics at Wendy Stark’s dinner party in Beverly Hills. There were no literary references to famous Irish writers that evening. We must stick to the facts of what happened. Remember, I don’t drink at those parties, have an excellent memory, and always carry a green leather notebook for when I slip into the bathroom after an encounter such as we had to make a few notes. I thought you were in a mean and miserable mood because your defense of Timothy McVeigh, whom you referred to as a patriot, had been such a colossal flop that it embarrassed the room before nearly clearing it, while I at least held the attention of the table by talking about Gary Condit and Chandra Levy. It’s as simple as that.

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