Maggie Renzi, the producer of John Sayles’s Lone Star and other films, sent a WhatsApp message informing me of Cari’s passing.
There is only one Cari in our lives, so there is no need for a last name. In 2001, Maggie and John sat me next to Cari Beauchamp at a pizza restaurant in Cannes. I spent three hours that night listening to this talkative Californian.
I had previously read Without Lying Down, a book about women in the early days of Hollywood, so I was eager to listen. She discussed Gloria Steinem and “Mary” (Mary Pickford, who co-founded United Artists with Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, and DW Griffith). As I refilled her glass, I couldn’t help but wonder if she resembled Eve Arden or Thelma Ritter more.
When a person passes away, the order of memories cannot be controlled. My initial recollection was of Cari’s feet – she often drove without shoes and had exceptionally large bunions. I also thought of her bed in her Los Angeles home, which resembled a boat and had a touch of Gloria Swanson’s style. I believe she mentioned once that she kept the diaries of writer Anita Loos (known for “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”) underneath it.
I quickly skimmed through 481 of her emails, which turned out to be a mistake because they now serve as a reminder of her absence. Over the years, I had heard stories about her time working as a PR agent for Democratic governor Jerry Brown of California, as well as her job as a private investigator. She shared her enthusiasm for her book on Joseph Kennedy Sr, the father of JFK and lover of Gloria Swanson (who she described as a terrible person), and would often send me the manuscript for her latest book or an article. As I realized we were becoming inseparable, she even discussed her plans for a new book on Swanson over a dinner of spaghetti and red wine (after which she drove us around the busy LA freeways).
However, I remembered the individuals that Cari had introduced me to. These included Charles Tabesh, a skilled programmer at TCM, Judy Balaban who once dated Montgomery Clift and whose father Barney was the president of Paramount Pictures from 1936-64. I also had the unexpected opportunity to have lunch with Nancy Olson, who starred in Sunset Boulevard. I also worked closely with Bill Kramer and Randy Haberkamp from the American Motion Picture Arts and Scientists. As our friendship grew, so did our professional collaborations. Cari appeared in my documentary series, The Story of Film: An Odyssey, and served as an associate producer for my film Women Make Film: A New Road Movie Through Cinema.
Perhaps it is not the visual aspects, emails, or individuals that remind us most of Cari Beauchamp. It could be her unique way of speaking. As readers of her books can attest, they are exceptional. However, her discussion of “Mary” and “Doug” – Pickford and Fairbanks – showcased how closely her imagination aligned with Hollywood before the Motion Picture Production Code was enforced. As she frequently stated, the creation of American cinema on the West Coast was largely driven by “the women, the Jews, and the gays”. During conversations, Cari would often insert “Ehm” as a conversational pause. She also had a plethora of phrases, such as “Doris Day parking”, which refers to finding a parking space at a restaurant with ease. In one of her emails, she mentions editing a book that is a combination of “Mommie Dearest and The Joy of Sex”.
What was her imagination like, this film historian, author, film-maker? Her sons Jake and Teo and her closest friends can answer better than I can. She was formed by Berkeley, by protest, feminism, and by the fact that there is something treasurable in the American film studio system. In an email she wrote: “Look after you. Please get cynical.” She meant don’t do things for nothing. Another one of her lines: “I don’t leave home unless it’s tax deductible.”
In another email, the sender expressed, “I have a sense that I am responsible for many individuals.” This is another commonly used phrase by Beauchamp: “Always remember you are loved.”
Source: theguardian.com
