I guess this is celebrity week here at Memos from the Moon. I can't seem to stop droning on about the subject, and I really can't seem to get away from droning on about the subject as it relates to my observations of John Turturro. So here we go again. I hope you'll forgive me.
Common wisdom has it that New Yorkers are a blasé lot, inured to the sight of celebrities in their midst and not at all star-struck. It's those of us greenhorns from out of town whose jaws drop to the pavement and who start falling all over themselves at the sight of a famous actor or musician. A good example might be my friend Andrew from work, who couldn't stop gushing about catching sight of Parker Posey at CBGB during a Patti Smith show. By his own report, he followed her all over the club trying to make certain that it really was her. Andrew recently moved here from Texas.
But I think the rules about detachment must only apply to Manhattanites. From the reactions I saw when John Turturro boarded a subway car at the Grand Army Plaza train station, it would seem that Brooklynites are every bit as star-struck as the rest of us poor schlubs.
In my previous memo, I described how I came across John Turturro having trouble with his MetroCard one morning in the subway station. I descended the stairs to the platform near him and his female companion, then stood near them, watching, as they waited for the Manhattan-bound train to arrive.
We all boarded the same car when the train came. I sat about a quarter of the way down the car from Turturro and friend. I pretended to read a paperback novel, keeping a watch on him out the corner of my eye. He produced a screenplay from his shoulder bag and began to read, appearing totally absorbed.
I kept a watch on the other passengers as well, mostly older black folks. I was curious to see whether they would recognize John Turturro, and how they would react when they did. It was around Nevins Street when someone did. I saw someone nudging a companion and indicating the actor with a nod of his head. Before long excited whispers were traveling around my end of the car and a dozen pairs of eyes were straining to catch a glimpse.
Turturro appeared to notice none of this, his nose buried deep in his script. A fellow near me was saying to his friend, in a barely hushed voice, "What's his name? Uh . . . Tarantino? Tor . . . ?"
"John Turturro," I said.
The man nodded. "That's right, that's right."
Another fellow asked, "What's he been in?"
"Do the Right Thing," I said. "Jungle Fever."
"Oh," this fellow said, his eyes lighting up. "Yeah."
To their credit, no one on the train went over and bothered Turturro for an autograph, at least not before I disembarked for work at Wall Street. (This stands in sharp contrast to a story my ex-girlfriend Katrina told me about a friend of hers, whom I'll call Bambi, who had visited Katrina at her home in Bozeman, Montana. Katrina and Bambi were in town when they spied Meg Ryan, who lived with Dennis Quaid on a ranch outside of Bozeman, coming out a store. Bambi insisted not only on bugging Meg Ryan for an autograph, but she had to have her picture taken with the actress as well. I saw the snapshots. Bambi looks giddy. Meg Ryan looks unhappily tolerant. I would have been mortified.) But now I know that Brooklynites are just as human as anyone else.
Anyone else but Manhattanites, that is, who can't see the stars in the sky above them, and don't care about the stars in their own midst.