I have been writing a lot lately about the power of memory. When I was about 10, I remember my Father coming into my room to check on me, or rather, to check on my television habits. He saw what I was watching and admonished me to stay on that channel. I understood this to mean that there was something being broadcast that I should not be watching. Of course, I wanted nothing more than to find out what that “forbidden” image was.My Father kept a vigilant watch on me for the next few hours, but I managed to find out what I had missed. it was some old black & white movie and I didn't know how it could cause such parental concern. So a couple of years later when I finally managed a clandestine viewing of Butterfield 8, I found it to be the most erotic movie I had ever seen. (Well, of course, I really had not seen ANY erotic movies, but this was a great start.) It is still one of my favorite movies. The very fact that one could say call me, I'm at “Butterfield 8”, is romantic.
Today, where naked starlets barely cause a raised eyebrow, Butterfield 8 would be an absolute bore. But not for me…
she was an Icon, now she is gone whata sad ending.
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