There are really only three reasons to see 1947’s The Long Night: Henry Fonda, Vincent Price and Barbara Bel Geddes. Bel Geddes is, strictly speaking, what made me stick around for what is undeniably one of the most ludicrous films noir ever made.

Lengthy aside: Fonda, holed up as a lodger, refuses to come out of his room. So what do the local police do? Call up the entire police force and shoot the hell out out of the place. Hundreds of bullets tear through the walls. And it is at this moment that the police decide that tear gas might be an option. To understate the obvious, it’s pretty clear that writer John Wexley — writer of Angels with Dirty Faces! — and director Anatole Litvak (the Nick Castle of his day; not exactly the brightest bulb helming in the 1940s; see also Sorry, Wrong Number, which turns the sumptuous Stanwyck into a one-dimensional puppet, as prima facie — riding on the coattails of Frank Capra as a directorial clone after co-directing Why We Fight) have no understanding of police procedure. Fonda, of course, stays alive, with enough vigor to spend the entire movie flashbacking to what got him into this ignoble spot.

But let’s go back to Bel Geddes. The woman is stunningly beautiful. Her acting is nuanced. On the basis of one movie alone, I am what you might call a fan, in the same way that I’m a fan of Liz Scott and Paulette Godard. Which is to say in a slightly unhealthy and decidedly masculine way.

One would hope that this (ahem) passion might be rewarded through the informational conduits of the Internet. If Google is a purported deity, we should be able to find all sorts of information about her, right? Nope. Because Bel Geddes is barely a blip on the cultural radar, here’s where the Internet’s powers are sorely lacking.

The Internet Movie Database, for example, suggests that Bel Geddes’ “career was damaged during the 1950s by McCarthyism” (as does Wikipedia). Okay, she’s had some sort of interesting political existence. But is there anything to corroborate this claim? Nope. Not even my dogeared copy of Victor Navasky’s Naming Names references her.

An interview with Larry Hagman reveals that Bel Geddes was one of the reasons he appeared on Dallas — largely because Bel Geddes was the first lady to say “pregnant” on the American stage. Is there anything to back this up? Not at all.

Hagman also reveals that Bel Geddes has become extremely reclusive and is hard to get a hold of. Further interest! But is there anything to back this up? No, not really.

So all any random person has to go on is unconfirmed rumors. There are no books. No newspaper citations. No abstracts. Almost nothing for someone who may have been a key figure in the political froth and who revolutionized theatre.

And the reason you can’t find anything on Barbara Bel Geddes is the same reason you can’t find much on John P. Marquand or even Sally Cruikshank’s wonderful animated shorts. If a person is not of the moment, then they are doomed to fall through the cracks of posterity.

I would suggest that bloggers and online enthusiasts have a duty to reference the people they love and back up their findings with links and citations. Because if we don’t keep these people alive, then who will?

[UPDATE: A reader writes in to remind me that Bel Geddes played the unfortunate Midge in Vertigo. I suppose I overlooked this because I’ve always been troubled by this misogynistic aspect (one of many) of Hitchcock’s overrated classic and the Midge character in particular.]

It’s come to my attention that an impending “crackdown” on bloggers is in the works. Bloggers will be arrested without due process, left to rot in a small 3 X 5 room, forced to hum ELO tunes at gunpoint, and asked if they’d prefer a stale menthol before being executed.

Of course, all this sounds very exciting and ominous. Someone in the shadowy hallways of the Pentagon is no doubt laughing his ass about all this. Presumably, they won’t be contributing to the edrants micropatron fund. Their loss. The empty Stoli botle is A-1.

But, for the record, you won’t find this place catering to the alleged rules and regulations — mostly, because we’re too lazy to keep track of the type of linking that might construe terrorism. We’ll link any damn way we want to and we encourage you to do the same.

Ever since I decided to become a lazy bastard and ask my readers for money, I’ve had lots of laughs spending my days in bed naked, smearing myself with Vaseline, watching Jose Mojica Marins movies on DVD, heating and eating donated cans of Progresso Soup (might I recommend the Manhattan Clam Chowder?), growing a poorly trimmed beard and, when really bored out of my gourd, posting content here that you can get elsewhere for free.

Sifting through monster.com ads and slaving away at some dull office job like most foolish Americans was never a consideration. And I had no desire to film myself having a nervous breakdown. There are enough 900 MB Quicktime movies floating around. (Just type in “Edward Champion drunk phone breakdown BitTorrent” into Google and see the insalubrious results for yourself.)

But I genuinely had no idea that you’d want to give me so much money to post long screeds about ME! ME! ME! I have difficulty enough jogging three times a week. And the last woman who slept with me thought my penis was too small.

However, fair is fair. Since some of you actually care enough to send me your hard-earned dollars, I figure that you deserve more incentive than reading about some 30 year old Caucasian whining about books during office hours. With this in mind, I’ve prepared some contribution gifts for the true suckers…ahem…patrons:

MY NINE INCH NAILS T-SHIRT: I’ve had this thing for at least twelve years. Frankly, it’s too embarassing for me to wear and I can’t even use it as “doing laundry” attire. But if you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to come close to all of the sweat I accumulated in my twenties, now’s your chance. Donate away and relive my glory years!

THE EMPTY BOTTLE OF STOLI FROM LAST WEEK: Hero worship doesn’t stop with sartorial artifacts. If there are any genetic scientists in the house who desire to clone me, you can do no worse than extracting some of the dried saliva around the bottle cap. Why, together we’ll create a whole army of self-absorbed bloggers asking for money! What lucky payee will be the first to start this revolution? The first one who sends in $400 gets this puppy.

SLOPPY SECONDS: The aforementioned woman who thought my penis was too small? Well, guess what, kids! She’s offered to throw herself at anyone willing to pay me money, largely because she figures that my readers are far more interesting and sexier than I am.

Act now and one of these (or perhaps all!) of these gifts can be yours!

Remember, kids! Blogging is all about the money!

Hey, producers, hack screenwriters and directors, and other cretinous bastards walking through the slimy alleys of Hollywood: Stop fucking around with Alan Moore’s work! (Or rather, Alan Moore, stop allowing these guys to fuck with your work. Do you really need more Victorian erotica to add to your copious collection in the east wing of the estate? Shit, Alan. It ain’t worth it!)

From Hell was a tepid affair. The League of Extraordinary Gentleman was abominable. And if, as this guy reports, you’re going to tamper with the careful politics of V for Vendetta and dilute this fantastic masterpiece of all its punch — if you motherfuckers can’t even “adapt” a fucking comic book, then you have no business being in show business.

And on a related note, why does The Bourne Supremacy make Paul Greengrass the ideal man to direct The Watchmen? Wasn’t Terry Gilliam attached to this at once point? (via Bookslut)