Jack Nicholson

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That poor Alan Turing. He most likely won the war for the Allies singlehandedly by breaking the German codes, then gets chemically castrated for being homosexual and commits suicide later on. Now the Queen awards him a pardon, which is very big of her, most likely because the very powerful gay lobby demanded it. The poor man should have never been hounded but instead ennobled for his wartime actions. I know, it was the law back then, but the British fuzz have always turned a blind eye to chic homosexuals, like—well, don’t get me started—while a real hero like Turing was thrown to the dogs.

But not to worry. Cecil B. De Sharpton, the race hustler, is demanding more awards for African-Americans from the Oscars, hence Selma, about Martin Luther King, Jr., will win. Last year it was a cartoon movie called 12 Years a Slave that won; this year a more realistic film about Dr. King will win. It’s the way of the world.

My revenge came easy, however. I watched five black-and-white Fred and Ginger movies in a row while a snowstorm hit the Swiss village. All five films were made in the 30s, and all featured white tie and tails for Fred Astaire and beautiful long gowns for Ginger Rogers. The music and dancing were to die for, the sex subliminal, the clothes out of this world. The films of Fred and Ginger—with such great lines as “and that pout that wrinkles your nose”—separated the fine from the base and the beautiful from the ugly. Harvey should make a film of their films.