Dear Carl Sagan,

I love your style. My folks recently streamed the collection of your “Cosmos” series which ran on PBS billions and billions of years ago. OK, maybe it wasn’t billions, but it was before I was born. It was sort of low-tech, but I have to say that the special effects were probably the most awesome thing to come to public television in its whole entire history. I also loved that you weren’t afraid to be your dorky self. What’s up with the jackets and turtlenecks? Again, I’m sure it was the styliest look going in the early 80s.

But enough about all that superficial stuff. What I really wanted to tell you was that if you were my science teacher, I would pay attention. Why can’t school be as interesting as “Cosmos”? I learned more about pulsars, nebulas and cosmic time in two hours than I have in hours upon hours of boring class assignments. People say that television will destroy your mind. But those people are probably thinking of The Housewives of Beverly Hills or Jersey Shore.

But this is my question… why do I have to go to school anyway? Why can’t learning be fun and interesting and include lots of different things like video? I can just tell by the way you talk about the stars that you were just bursting at the seams to share this coolness with the world. Wasn’t “Cosmos” what television was supposed to be? Instead, it’s full of junk that mostly makes me feel bad about myself. I should be able to learn whatever I want to learn, whenever it suits me. Does that sound revolutionary? I think I’ll have a talk with some decision-makers in my personal little universe over here.

But let’s get back to “Cosmos.” I really loved your ideas about how everything is connected and that we’re all made of “star stuff.” This is a nice concept when I am thinking of me being connected to someone like, let’s say, Kit Harrington. But does that mean I’m also connected to Mrs. Stavos, my science teacher? How can that be? How can we all come from the same place but be so different? How can people make such a big deal about our little problems, when we are ultimately so, so, so tiny in the greater scheme of things?

My brain hurts… but in a good way. Anyway, I just really wanted to tell you that I like the way you have more questions than opinions. I’m going to try to be more that way. Questions make a person interesting. Opinions are so tired.

Always,

Capra

Dear Aretha Franklin,

I was really sorry to hear about your recent passing. I’ve never really told anyone this, but I wish I could sing like you. Well, not exactly like you. I wish I could sound like me, but have your musical soul and raw talent. You are awesome.

This is the thing I don’t get. How can I have such an overwhelming urge to sing “Chain of Fools” or “Ain’t No Way” from the very depth of my being and sound like a horrible, dying ferret? It’s just not fair. I have a song to sing. I have a tune in my heart. I have a melody to share. And they all suck… really bad.

I tried voice lessons once, but my voice teacher had to get on Zoloft just to push through our one hour lessons which eventually managed to propell her into the life-altering decision to move to New Zealand and take up knitting. I thought about trying to hone my skills at the all-ages Karaoke night, but my rendition of “Come Sail Away” by Styx was met by some kid pulling me off the stage mumbling something about thanking him later, and how much had I actually had to drink. To drink? Does a Roy Rogers count?

Then I thought I might try my hand at elaborate lip synching and a little choreography at the talent show at my school which was raising money for our sister village in Kenya. We visit with this school through a webcam and they show us dances and songs and what they know. They seem genuinely happy, and a lot less self-conscious in general. When I look around my class, we all seem so guarded and reluctant to let loose a little. Nobody wants to make a fool of herself.

But, like I said, I have a song to sing. The lip synching at the talent show just didn’t satisfy my urge to express myself even though a lot of it came through a elaborate get up I made out of a second-hand costume at Goodwill. It involved feathers, sequins, satin and, well, some stuff that I had never really seen or touched before. I don’t think I used any actual dead animals in the making of my costume, but I sure looked like a cross between a peacock and a really happy bear. I had seen Priscilla Queen of the Desert and noticed that you don’t really have to know how to sing, but you have know how to perform.  Problem was, I couldn’t really fill out the whole “look” if you know what I mean.

Why do I have this passion for singing when I have no actual talent for it? Why can’t I just be happy singing for myself in the shower, in the car, when I’m pulling weeds? I have a pretty good ability in poetry and drawing comics which other people don’t have. But I still want that one great song. I want my own anthem. I want to hit every note and give myself chills with the heartfelt power a single, sublime verse can deliver.

But then I think  about singers who have sort of passed their vocal prime and yet they can totally make me cry. Last week my friend’s Dad was playing this song in the car by Johnny Cash called “For You” and, well, I lost it. His voice was scratchy and old and wobbly, but my heart just exploded when I heard the song. I cried and cried.

So maybe I don’t need a perfect voice, a solid vibrato, or an operatic range. Maybe I just sing my song. Even if it’s only for me, alone and with some heart… and maybe a boa.

Always,

Capra

 

Dear Amy Winehouse,

It’s the 7th anniversary of your terrible death. I was only a little kid when you died, but I remember that my mother was extremely distraught at the news of your death. She played Back to Black and Frank over and over in the car on the way to karate practice and grocery shopping.

I suppose I can’t blame people who immediately grabbed on to the spooky fact that you were 27 years old, just 11 years older than me. You could have been my big sister. Being the newest member of “The 27 Club” seems to be both accurate and belittling. I look at my four year-old cousin and I wonder if he has the addiction gene like you did. Any of us could. My grandfather had it, and so did my great grandmother. But they got better. Maybe they didn’t seem happy all the time, but they were alive and they did manage to have moments of joy in their lives. What I’m saying is that they found ways to get back to themselves. It was hard, but they did it.

I don’t know what it must have felt like to 1) feel completely uncomfortable and miserable while sober and 2) have the power to control your condition, but basically decide not to. For the non-addict this seems insane. But it’s a brain thing, a self-esteem thing, and maybe an art thing.

It makes me anxious, as a young artist myself, to see the myth of the tortured, suicidal artist play itself out yet again in the headlines. Is creating good art more important than life itself? Is it more important than taking that big step to accept that itchy, hopeless feeling for the rest of your life so you can live another day? Why did you wrap yourself up in your image and how much and well you produced music so much so that you couldn’t bear to face your flaws? If we were, like, really little kids and you saw a little girl saying “I have to get this right, I have do better, people won’t like me unless I give them something great” wouldn’t you do everything you could to sweep that little girl up in your arms and say, “No, no you’ve got it all wrong. You’re good enough just being you, right here and right now. Now worries, OK love?” I have a feeling you would be really nice that way.

But now it’s too late. A very deep, damaged part of yourself gave in and gave up. You couldn’t fathom living day in day and out without the comforting, buffering haze of drugs and alcohol. You forgot the feeling you had when someone close to you would hold you and rock you to sleep if you were low in yourself. You forgot the joy of swinging too high on a playground swing and then hurling yourself into the air, a little scared that you might land too hard, but relieved and excited when you didn’t. You forgot the feeling of having cousins over you haven’t seen in a long time and sleeping in a tent under the stars. Did you ever do that?

I don’t understand addicts. But I do understand that addiction is a real disease that really kills. I am sad for you, Amy. I was going to say that I’m sad for all the world who will never experience all the music you had left in you. But I actually don’t care about that so much. I guess I care about you because I don’t personally know anyone, at the moment, who is slowing killing herself or has actually self-destructed. I knew you through pictures and recordings and reports. You were a human being– a person who died from a terrible disease that millions of people have. I am sad for all of them, too.

Rest in Peace, Amy.

Always,

Capra

Dear Julia Child,

Merci Beaucoup! Thank you for bringing French cuisine to the American masses. I mean, c’mon. We all owe you so much. Today I am making one of your finest creations– your Reine de Saba (Queen of Sheba) cake. Works for me.  I wish I could say it was “for” something. But the truth is that I just want some cake. It’s nobody’s birthday, there’s no special occasion, and I’m trying to tell anyone I’m sorry.

I’ve been doing this blog for a couple of months now, and I’m inspired by the power of a blog to change people’s outlooks on things. I really liked Julie & Julia and particularly happy that the Reine de Saba cake was featured in the movie!

So I am thinking about that, and about baking and I suppose I am also celebrating the glorious beginning of Spring. In fact, I decided to add fresh strawberries to the cake. Strawberries make it taste like Spring! It’s been sort of a rough winter and in the last two weeks I’ve been noticing the cherry blossoms blooming and various flowers coming back to life. The produce is changing at the farmer’s market and I’m starting to wear my cardigans less and less.

But today, there was a tiny bit of a cold front and rain. So, basically, it’s cake time. I started cooking and baking (with grown-up help) when I was about four. My mother would teach me how to take ingredients out of the fridge, get out the measuring cups and even crack eggs. I was hooked. Later I figured out it was less about bonding time and more about training me to be the kitchen mistress, which I am totally OK with.

As the years went on, our family came to be known as the “family to know” around the holidays. We make food presents. Just not any food presents– but the most awesome, delectable, homemade food baskets you’ve ever seen. Last year, we gave out–  jalapeno jelly, cornbread mix, Mexican wedding cookies (Polvorones), Mexican hot chocolate (with extra cinnamon) and the best salsa you’ve ever had in your life. Feliz Navidad!

But I’m feeling a little Frenchy today, and excited about Springtime and I’m alone at home on a rainy day. I like the whole wonderful process of making your cakes, Julia. Finding the recipe, trolling through the pantries to see what I’m missing, riding my bike to Central Market with my little list. Strolling through the aisles slowly, occasionally asking a stock boy for “help.” Then I get home, lay everything out and put on the appropriate music. Today, let’s see, how about a little Yann Tiersen? Perfect. Or as the French would say, um, perfect.

Once I get started, I really get into it. I like whisking the egg whites. I like tasting the batter. And I like the thought that I know exactly every single ingredient that’s going into this thing. Don’t get me wrong. I like the occasional junk food (I’m lookin’ at you Cheetos). But mostly, I really do like making something and sharing it. You know what? I am going to share this. I’m going to ask Pam and Josh over for a Queen of Sheba tea party. Yes, I realize that I’m not seven. And, no, there will be no stuffed animals or tiaras involved. What there will be is this awesome cake, a quiet weekend afternoon, French music and maybe I’ll even break out the French press! Ooh La La!

Always,

Capra

P.S. Bon Appetit!

Happy Birthday, Marilyn Monroe

Yep, she was a reader. Look it up.

I realize that I haven’t written you a proper fan letter and there’s a reason for that. You’re one of the biggies. I mean, you are one of the most important celebrities of all time. I just haven’t had the courage to write to you yet because I know when I do, it will be one of the most intense letters I’ve ever written. I hope it will be as sincere and thoughtful and beautiful as you. I want to ask you some questions and tell you about all the ways I don’t feel right with myself.

But until then, I just wanted to wish you a Happy 92nd Birthday. Not many people know this, but you were a curious person with a love of serious literature and culture. In your library they found books by Bertrand Russell, Albert Camus, Chekov and lots more. They even found some diaries (and they published them in a book called Fragments) of yours and, wow, you were smart, curious and had a lot on your mind. You were complicated and terrified of disappointing people. Oh, Marilyn— or should I say Norma Jean– what a strange experience you must have had in your short 36 years on the planet. Half your life, you weren’t loved enough and the other half, maybe people loved you too much and for the wrong reasons. But more on those questions later.

Anyway, Happy Birthday and thank you for this awesome quote:

“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you’re going to mess up sometimes, it’s a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you’re going to mess it up. Girls will be your friends – they’ll act like it anyway. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything – they’re your true best friends. Don’t let go of them. Also remember, sisters make the best friends in the world. As for lovers, well, they’ll come and go too. And babe, I hate to say it, most of them – actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can’t give up because if you give up, you’ll never find your soul mate. You’ll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much to smile about.”

Always,

Capra

Dear Joan Crawford,

For all intents and purposes, I should have absolutely no idea who you are. However, you’re in luck. I just happen to be one of those teens who’s actually interested in stuff like film history, hollywood scandals and personality disorders. Maybe not in that order.

So the reason I’m writing to you now is that I’ve been suffering from terrible insomnia lately. I suppose I could get a machine that radiates soothing ocean sounds. I could try to get my hands on some of that yummy codeine-infused pineapple-flavored cough syrup that made my aunt pass out in her spaghetti squash last summer. But, no. I just HAD ro turn on Turner Classic Movies the exact moment your movie, Autumn Leaves, started.

How is it that I can get bored watching summer blockbuster trailers, but instantly sucked in by your relentlessly unnatural eyebrows and voice which strains to be soft, but can’t. My Mom and I watched Faye Dunaway’s take on you in Mommie Dearest probably a dozen times. It was one of her favorite movies. We bonded over it. My mom’s sense of humor is awesome that way.

Anyway, Ms. Crawford, back to the movie. Man, if there was a way to capture the 1950s pathos of a self-loathing single woman, this is it. Your character sure knew how to pick ’em. And, given what I know about you, you never would have allowed yourself to play this part (and very convincingly I might add) if there wasn’t just the tiniest part of you in there… somewhere.

So, let me get this straight. You loved this script about a lonely woman in her 40s (I think) who works from home as a typist. You go to a movie alone and then wander into a diner where a chatty younger man convinces you to date him. You spend a majority of the movie doubting yourself and not understanding why this guy would be into you. Um, he has no job, then he’s a tie salesman, then he lies about it, he shoplifts, he forgets to tell you that he was married, he lies about his military service, his father and ex-wife are having an affair and trying to shake him down, then he has a psychotic break, slaps you (hard) and practically crushes your hand (one of the money-making typing ones). You have no choice but to get him committed. By the end of his sanitarium stay, you’re convinced he’s been “cured” of his need for you and so you decide to let him run out on you even though you’ve been nothing but patient, loving and supportive. Huh?

That is ALL kinds of crazy.

Between that and roles like Mildred Pierce, you seem to really like to play the pious, sensitive lady who’s been wronged. But that’s why you were a great actress. Only really great ones can put on a show like that. I’m not sure if I was riveted by your performance or the sheer nuttiness of this kooky mid-20th century boy/girl dynamic.

Ms. Crawford, what sort of mother, wife, friend, starlet would be if you had born in 1980, not 1908? Who would you be without lights on you? Would you disappear, or finally come to life? I’m torn between admiring your clear ambition, and sort of wondering what it was all for. You were not the characters you played. None of us are, I guess.

Always,

Capra

Dear Ray Harryhausen,

I’m so sad you’re dead. I don’t know why, because you were 92 and that’s a respectable age to move on. But can I just say how much I love your work? You were a genius. And you inspired tons of people to follow their twisted little hearts and make art the point of their lives.

As the father of stop motion awesomeness, you did something artistic and new and totally weird before modern special effects made us all jaded and not appreciate when we’re seeing something absolutely extraordinary. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I went to a movie and thought, “OMG. How in the HELL did they DO that?” I know how they did. With computers. The end. Yawn.

That lack of wonder is really sad. And your effects in It Came From Beneath the Sea, Jason and the Argonauts, Mighty Joe Young, The 7th Voyage of Sinbad and, later, Clash of the Titans were surreal and odd, it didn’t matter that we all knew that the characters were shot, second by second, by some really, really patient guy. I mean, that must have been the most tedious way to make something move. But if that’s not love, I don’t know what it is.

I’ve started to make my own stop motion movie. It’s called “White Ball vs. Red Ball.” I’m still working out the story, and everything is turning pink and I’m running low on the clay budget, so I’m still learning. But I’m patient.

But people tend to get caught up in your special effect-iveness (see what I did there?) The truth is that you were drawn to stories which were timeless and dramatic. Stories dripping in mythology and tension. You were a storyteller destined to set up permanent residence in the hearts and minds of ten year-old everywhere. Sure, there were battles and grotesque creatures, but there were always heroes and something to fight for, not just against.

I’m glad you got to finish your last film in 2002, The Story of the Tortoise and the Hare. Sure, it only took fifty years to make, but whatever. You did it. Mr. Harryhausen, if celebrities could be guardian angels (and I think they are) you’d be the Patron Saint of Patience and Wonder. Thank you for giving us your time and your craft.

Always,

Capra

Dear Charlotte Brontë,

Mia Wasikowska as Jane Eyre

I just saw the latest film adaptation of Jane Eyre starring Mia Wasikowska. I know everyone in Hollywood is in the habit of falling over stars and filmmakers and producers congratulating them for delivering such astonishing stories. But the fact of the matter is that you’re the real superstar of this epic tale of one girl’s woe. The writer. It’s been a long time since I read your novel, and I’m always quite the skeptic about seeing less-than-perfect screen adaptations of classic books. But in this case, I think you’d actually be pretty proud of what the filmmakers managed to accomplish.

I bet you had no idea how riveting your little slice of history would be for readers and movie goers in the 21st Century. But while girls may not be able to identify with the rigid social games that took place during your time, there are a few things that personally spoke to me.

But before we get to that, I think that Jane Eyre was a fascinating glimpse into a world of all sorts of abuse that is so shocking, and so utterly devoid of humanity that it  makes for some pretty stellar drama; it’s like looking through a keyhole into a forbidden room. But it is also just a story of a teenage girl wanting desperately to love and be loved.

Oh how lonely Jane was in her private world– a world that probably became even more intense as she drifted into sleep a night. It’s those thoughts in a shadowless, foreign room and after days, months and years of never being at the receiving end of even a hug that could drive a girl completely crazy. Or maybe society was just so particularly oppressive that even the thought of being able to be yourself was almost like a fairy tale– an impossible dream that could never be.

I think that’s why girls fly like beaten kittens into the arms of nature when the chance presents itself. I suppose if a girl doesn’t have parents, or even one person who can claim her as any sort of family, she might be drawn into the arms of a wild forest with nature’s mayhem swirling around her like cousins and sisters and, more likely, ancestors who have passed. The rules of nature are nothing like the rules that you were expected to live by. The adults in your life probably looked at kids as something to mold and shape like silly topiaries.

You can search someone’s face, if only for a few seconds, and tell whether or not they are ruled by men or by nature. And Jane steers remarkably clear of those who seem determined to crush the branches of her psyche into kindling for some useless purpose.

We are so modern, we think we have learned the lessons of  a twisted former century and that we know how to make kids feel really loved. But that’s not true. It may be better now for girls. We may give them the message that they can do whatever they like and no one can stop them. It’s a nice message, but we imprison them in other ways.

For Jane Eyre, the cause of her suffering was so clear. The “others” abused her, tricked her and beat her into submission. They would strip her of friendship, love and even a home to call her own. But Jane had her own personal genius to befriend her. And that genius, that ability to listen to that still, small voice within, never left her.

It seems like the enemies girls deal with today are still pretty sinister. Girls hate themselves because they are never really told that their inner world– that voice inside– is real. They are never permitted to go deep within themselves to dig out that talent which can save them from anything. They’re told that stuff and appearances and food and boys can make them feel better.

Maybe in your time, girls knew their inner worlds were private playgrounds of emotion, imagination and escape. Their inner lives were real, but hidden.

If Jane Eyre was real, I wouldn’t say that her superpower was her art. But her art was a tool to express her genius which never left her for even a moment. Is that what writing did for you? Is that how you survived?

I wish you could tell me what you were thinking when you were writing Jane Eyre. I wish I could travel through time and be your modern narrator whispering in your ear at a dinner on some English estate in the company of noble people and their wards. I could say things like “clearly that person is totally insecure” or “boy, that lady is extremely passive aggressive” or “OMG, what a control freak.” You would look at me strangely like I was speaking some exotic foreign language and you would take me aside voraciously probing me for answers about what I just observed and what it’s like in the enlightened future.

But, like I said, you might be disappointed. People can still be terribly cruel and pretty uncivilized. But it might be fun to compare notes and then take a long walk to a stone bridge and watch waves of grass summon us in the direction of a wood at the edge of a lake. We could plot the next three hundred years and gather an army of kids to willfully remove themselves from society and just start humanity all over. Would that be impossible? Could we love ourselves enough to even consider this?

So thank you, Ms. Brontë, for a wonderful story about a girl who could finally love and let herself be loved. That’s huge.

Always,

Capra

Dear William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy,

Happy Birthday to you both!! You are 87. (RIP, Mr. Nimoy)That is old even by people I consider to be old. I mean that with the utmost respect, of course. I don’t think young people respect their elders nearly as much as they should. You two have certainly earned respect as two of the most recognizable and beloved pop culture icons of the 20th century and beyond. You’ve had amazing careers and have managed to remain friends through it all. Are there awards for that? There should be. Because lifelong friendships seem pretty hard to come by.

You two became friends when you were strapping young men with ill-fitting 60s sci-fi costumes. But, man, did you own those roles. The way you possessed Capt. James T. Kirk and Lt. Commander Spock was so remarkable, so thoroughly entertaining that there have only been a handful of TV best friends that can measure up. I mean, I’m talking about Lucy & Ethel, Fred Flintstone & Barney Rubble, Richie Cunningham & The Fonz, Abbott & Costello, Charlie Brown & Linus, Oscar Madison & Felix Unger, Jerry Seinfeld & George Costanza… you get it.

I hope that I have a friendship like that one day. I do have a BFF. Her name is Pam and she reealllly wants to make it in show biz. I am always telling her that being a celebrity is not all it’s cracked up to be. Believe me, I watch enough entertainment shows and read enough celebrity mags and blogs to tell that an actor can really get pigeon-holed into some roles if they’re not careful.

But, Mr. Shatner, you did what very few TV actors could ever do. You went from Star Fleet to so many TV roles that spanned the 80s, 90s and into the 21st Century. You’ve spanned centuries. That is awesome. But let’s be honest here. It’s your recording career that really enchanted audience then and now. You developed a personal style of “speak singing” that is both entertaining and deep.

And you, Mr. Nimoy, you are quite the renaissance man. In addition to your many acting roles, you’re a celebrated photographer and also a recording artist like Mr. Shatner. Oh, and your two autobiographies, I Am Not Spock followed many years later by I Am Spock… that’s heavy duty clever, right there. Furthermore, I think my head almost exploded in joy the first time I heard a song you recorded called The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins. Nice.

And because you were best friends on one of television’s most popular shows of all time, people assumed you were BFFs in real life too. But I know the difference between TV and reality. You each had your own lives to lead, but you were definitely friends with your share of public ups and downs. I wonder how close you really are?

So, this is my question to you fine gentlemen: How do you stay friends for a lifetime? There are some people who believe that friends and other important relationships sort of come in seasons. It sort of depends on where you are in your life– like college or after you’re married or maybe when you have kids. But friends are super-important to me because I have a very, very small family. Basically, it’s just me and my parents. Is it possible to have unconditional love and support from people who you are not actually related to? How have you kept your friendship going for more than 40 years?I’m guessing that you have both weathered show biz storms and because you have Star Trek, you’ll always be linked. But is it more than that?

Sometimes, I think that I will die of loneliness. But then I think that my friends today will always be my friends forever, and that makes me feel better. But what if they move away? What if I move away? What if we all change beyond recognition after we leave high school? It feels like at some point I’ll be going into the world all by myself with only my quirks and my stuff as calling cards to people who might want to hang out with me. In other words, no one is obligated to care about me other than my immediate family. And if they go, what will I do?

That’s why it’s important that I understand how these decades long friendships work. I think when you know someone from a young age, they have a special importance because they are the ones who knew you before the world beat you up or made you bloom. Maybe they can still see your optimism, your creativity or your drive. They’ve seen you before the world has had a chance to make you into something you might never recognize again– or at least for a long time.

I hope Pam and I can stay friends, especially if she lands a part on a Disney Channel or Nickelodeon show. She’s been talking about reality shows, and I will do everything in my power to talk her out of that nonsense. But who knows? I might go out to L.A. someday and become a screenwriter or an animator. Maybe Pam and I could get a cheap apartment and be like Laverne & Shirley. Or maybe I’ll go to school in Boston and she’ll end up in New York. I just don’t know. But what I do know is that whatever happens to us– whether one of us is rich and the other one is poor; whether I publish a book or she never gets that dream role; whether she gets married or I never find true love– we’ll always have those moments of riding in her car down the highway, windows rolled down and blasting the Yeah Yeah Yeahs without a care in the world. I hope she feels the same way.

I guess it would be nice to know that there is at least one person in this big, wide world who will have my back no matter what– even if we have a bad fight or say things we don’t mean or somehow aren’t there for the other person at a really bad time. We all make mistakes. But I think real friendship might just be about forgiveness and honesty and, above all, compassion.

There aren’t a lot of people in twenty years who can say, “I knew Capra when she was a teenager.” I wonder where those people will be when life gets big and complicated and weird. I hope I can be there for them.

So, again, Happy Birthday to my favorite BFFs. Your brotherly love– across species lines has been inspiring and a nice reminder that whether your blood is red or green, we’re all one big family. Live long and prosper.

Always,

Capra

Dear Dame Elizabeth Taylor,

When I go through my reasons as to why I write fan letters to celebrities, one of the most important is because there are certain people who have this incredible ability to be themselves even when they are playing a character or a role. That’s not easy to do. When I saw you in Cleopatra, it was like you were channeling hidden passions and wishes and powers that all young women ponder but are afraid to face. In Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, you were a drunken, angry mess– but still honest and willing to show that very dark, vulnerable underneath side of you– the grown-up part that’s all scarred, scary and sad. You somehow softened her by your luminous presence without cheating the role. You once said, “I have a woman’s body and a child’s emotions.” This is probably what you meant:

That’s what you were to me. Just a kid in a grown-up persona. You were just being yourself, you said, in National Velvet. You even picked out the horse and it was, after all, your very favorite book. It practically wasn’t even acting, so we all totally fell in love with you– not your character– but Elizabeth. That was the beginning. A true American girl’s story. A real girl.

People commented a lot about your amazing violet eyes. Maybe they were there to remind us that you were in there somewhere giving courage to your characters in ways that you probably had a hard time giving to yourself. Every time I bought in to one of your performances, there was that little part of my soul that could recognize your soul through that particularly awesome shade of purple that led straight to you. You were ever-present in those roles. Your eyes made sure of that.

I don’t think it’s worth it to recount your entire amazing career in this letter. Anyone can Google that. But what I did want to do was thank you for was standing as beacon for people living with AIDS as amFAR’s Founding National Chairman, especially during a time when there was so much widespread panic about it.

I saw a clip of you today on Entertainment Tonight that you did in 2007 where you said that you grew to resent your fame during the majority of your adult life and you did everything you could to run from it. Were you the original celebrity? Some people think so. Your life was as interesting to the media as your movies. This became the thing you really hated.

Then one day, it occurred to you that you could actually use your fame for something great. AIDS awareness. But then the shock set in. People turned on you. They told you not to align yourself with such a controversial disease. There were death threats. “It was the most horrendous time of my life,” you said. It was a time when not only were you so worried about the thousands of people who were fighting the disease, but you were totally shocked at how heartless people could be about other people’s suffering.

But even as your own health was falling apart, you stood strong for others. “I’ve been through it all, baby, I’m mother courage,” you said.

Yes, you were one of the most stunningly beautiful actresses of your time with such a mesmerizing screen presence, I would challenge anyone to be able to look away from you once you entered a scene. But you had heart. A really good one. Even though, in the end, it failed you.

And then we began to see the creeping vines of time wind their way around you in such a poetic, but tragic way. Women could see themselves in you through each divorce, each scary diagnosis, each painful death, each struggle with addiction and with every pound you gained and lost. But we loved you, loved you, loved you.

I wish you had not hated your fame so much. I wish the media and the industry you chose were not so creepy and heartless and terrible at times. The glowing flipside was, without them, you couldn’t have affected change the way you did. You did that by being you. That was all that was required. I might only be a teenager, but anyone who loves movies as much as I do knows a staggering talent when she sees one.

You may not have been the best example in the boy department, but that was never your job. You found your role. It was to be creative, sexy, dramatic, powerful and compassionate. You sure nailed it. Thank you.

Always,

Capra