January 11, 2005

I know I usually don't write about such frivolities, but am I the only one worried that Ashlee Simpson is gonna make like Susan Alexander Kane and swallow a handful of pills? I mean, tell me if these scenes sound like they might have taken place somewhere in L.A., with her Daddy-Manager standing in the Orson Welles role.

You don't propose to have yourself made ridiculous? What about me? I'm the one that has to do the singing. I'm the one that gets the razzberries. (pauses) Last week, when I was shopping, one of the salesgirls did an imitation of me for another girl. She thought I didn't see her, but - Charlie, you might as well make up your mind to it. This is one thing you're not going to have your own way about. I can't sing and you know it! Why can't you just --

Kane rises and walks toward her. There is cold menace in his walk. Susan shrinks a little as he draws closer to her.


My reasons satisfy me, Susan. You seem unable to understand them. I will not tell them to you again. You will continue with your singing.

[Cut to weeks later, following some further disastrous performances, Susan has attempted to overdose on pills. Kane visits her in her room as she is recovering.]

SUSAN (in a voice that comes from far away)

I couldn't make you see how I felt, Charlie. I just couldn't - I couldn't go threw with singing again. You don't know what it means to feel - to know that people - that an audience don't want you. That if you haven't got what they want - a real voice - they just don't care about you. Even when they're polite - and they don't
laugh or get restless or - you know...they don't want you. They just...
Boy, I need to starting reading the Times at lunch instead of the Post...
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