Air Jordan 4 (IV) Oreo Retro Black / Black – Cool Grey The Air Jordan 4 (IV) Retro in Black / Black – Cool Grey received the nickname Oreo around the release time due to the mixture of Grey and Black speckles on the mid sole. The release date for the Air Jordan 4 (IV) Retro Oreo was in November of 1999, and was one of the first Air Jordan 4 (IV) Retro’s to release. Retail for the Air Jordan 4 (IV) Retro Oreo was $100. Oreo Air Jordan 4 Retro Info Model: Air Jordan Retro 4 Nickname: Air Jordan 4 Oreo, Color Code: Black/Black-Cool Grey Release Type: General Release Information: Air Jordans – Air Jordan Release DatesYou look like a robot. If you think you are not, contact us: support@ebay-kleinanzeigen.deOn a summer morning in Central Park in June, 2011, my friend pointed at a good-looking white-haired dame in the distance. She wore a beige jacket, beige shorts, white sneakers, and a beige hat, and she was approaching strangers, asking something, and getting shrugs in response.
“Is that Elaine Stritch?” my friend said. She looked a bit lost. I was heading her way, about to meet another friend, in midtown, and I took off after her. I figured that I could point her in the right direction, and I suspected that she might be confused. She’d had trouble remembering lines when I’d seen her in “A Little Night Music,” and, of course, she was old. This is what happens to us. When I caught up to her, she asked me for directions. She was aiming south. So was I, I told her, and we walked together. “The Israel Day parade shut down Fifth Avenue,” she said. “I was going to get a cab there. I’m going to the theatre district. I thought I’d cut through the park, but I got turned around.” I pointed at the Time Warner Center in the southwest and explained that we’d be heading toward it, but she was unimpressed. I was a new but ardent Stritch fan, having a few years earlier organized an “Elaine Stritch: At Liberty” viewing party with some fellow-enthusiasts, bought tickets to see “A Little Night Music” just because she was in it, adoringly reënacted her great lines from “30 Rock,” and so on.
(“I can hear you,” she says acidly to her son’s fiancée, whom she keeps asking to repeat herself. “I just want to be sure that you can hear you.”) After a while, I felt like a creep for not acknowledging that I knew who she was, and I said, “By the way, I think you’re terrific.” “Thank you!” she shouted. “You know, fans recognize me all over the place. But the second you need anything, they’re never around! They’re like the police!” Then, to my surprise, she asked me what I did. I told her that I worked at The New Yorker. “Do you know my friend John Lahr?” she asked, cheerfully. “Are you still friends?” Lahr, who co-created “Elaine Stritch: At Liberty,” had recently sued her over nonpayment for his work. “Oh, sure, we say hello at parties. I have nothing against him. He helped with my show. He wanted to be the star of my show. He’s not the star of my show! I’m the star of my show!” she said. I told her I’d seen her in “A Little Night Music” and rhapsodized a bit about Bernadette Peters’s “Send in the Clowns”—how it seemed like a silly story until then, but suddenly her performance of that song, a song I’d always thought I’d hated, broke your heart.
She agreed with me, vehemently, about Peters. I asked what she was working on, and she said that she was reviving her Sondheim show at the Carlyle that fall. I excitedly said that I hadn’t gone to her earlier run and regretted it, and was glad to have another chance. She told me to call her at the Carlyle when the time came and she’d give me a free ticket. “Just call and ask for me!” she said. “They’ll put you right through, no fuss.” We had made it to the southern end of the Park. She didn’t entirely trust this, despite the presence of the hansom carriages and the Time Warner Center—she insisted that south and north were east and west. “I have to get to Ninth Avenue in a cab,” she said. “Can I drop you somewhere?” I was going to Ninth Avenue, too. At Columbus Circle, I offered her my arm when we crossed the street, and she took it. She told me that these days she worried about falling and breaking a hip. I suddenly missed my grandmothers—ninety-nine-year-old Muriel, feisty and legally blind, whose touch on my arm Stritch’s reminded me of, and eighty-nine-year-old Corinne, who had spent a couple years being mildly confused, like this, before progressing somewhere far beyond confusion.
I had an idea that I wanted to call Elaine Stritch at the Carlyle, not for free tickets to anything but to offer my services somehow, to be a do-gooding version of one of the fans who, unlike the police, were around when you needed them. It was a bad cab day, but, after crossing a few streets arm in arm, we managed to hail a taxi. She made me get in first. Once she settled in, she called out to the driver, “What’s your name?” He pointed at his operator license. “I can’t read!” she said. “I don’t have my glasses on.” “It’s Fred,” I told her. “Fred, we’re making two stops,” she said. “And take it easy, Fred! I have a bad back!” Elaine Stritch and Fred dropped me off at the diner where I was meeting my friend. She waved me away when I tried to give her cab money, and thanked me for helping her. I got out in a happy daze, hoping she’d get to the theatre O.K. I’m not the kind of person who calls Elaine Stritch at the Carlyle; I’m the kind of person who likes to imagine it.
And I wouldn’t expect her to remember our journey to Ninth Avenue. What I did do was see her farewell show at Café Carlyle, which I wrote about here, adoring her from the shadows. Photograph: Todd Heisler/The New York Times/ReduxThe film director Sidney Lumet, who died this week at the age of eighty-seven, changed my life. At a dinner party, when I was twenty-six and, as a sideline, writing about theatre in an East Side giveaway paper for ten dollars a column, he took me aside and told me he liked my stuff and to keep at it. His faith is something I have always carried with me. Over the years, we’d meet at dinner tables in London and Sag Harbor. He bustled through his days: noisy, generous, outspoken, full of vigor and fun. I last visited him about a year ago in his small office at the Ansonia on the Upper West Side, where he was still trying to develop film projects. Lumet made many memorable films—“Twelve Angry Men,” “Dog Day Afternoon,” “Network,” “Prince of the City,” “The Verdict”—but the movie I’d come to talk about was one of his least successful: “The Fugitive Kind,” a version of Tennessee Williams’s “Orpheus Descending.”
The film’s stars—a barometer of Lumet’s prowess—were Anna Magnani and Marlon Brando, who earned the first million-dollar Hollywood paycheck playing Val Xavier, who wanders into a Mississippi dry-goods store wearing a snakeskin jacket and carrying his guitar. Val’s looking for work and meets both a dame and his doom. In the film’s first few minutes, Brando speaks directly to the camera; to my mind, one of his greatest performances on film. That afternoon at the Ansonia, with his sneakers propped up on his desk, Lumet broke one of his longstanding rules and talked about life on the set. I was very nervous about Southerners because, during the war, my company was eighty per cent from Mississippi. I’m not making up stories when I say that the first three, four days in the shower, I could see them looking at me. I thought it was some sort of sexual thing. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally one of them told me: “We thought you had a tail. (I was the only Jew, obviously) … It’s one of the reasons I didn’t go to the Delta to shoot.
I shot those exteriors in a little town called Milton, on the Hudson, about eight miles south of Poughkeepsie. He had plenty to say about Anna Magnani: I don’t think [she] minded [about Brando’s salary] as much as the fact that he wouldn’t sleep with her. I think that was a big problem because they did not get along from the get-go…. In fact, there was one spot where she had to walk out of the [dry goods] store fiercely, and I had the prop man nail the bottom of the door shut. I knew what would happen to her when she started … when the door was shut. But the converse of that, John, is that when she had to tell him she was pregnant, I shot four thousand feet of film on that one closeup…. If she saw the camera set up so that it would be primarily her left side, she’d walk off the set. I was shocked by that; it completely ruined my staging. It meant that everyone had to be in a certain position in relation to her. I wanted her to look as attractive as possible, but it was also fatal, because it meant you never saw Marlon’s right side.