Like a post-war victory celebration, the parade continues down Dunster Street. (I think I see a joyful Italian woman crying from her balcony as she throws a sprig of oregano down to welcome the soldati back home.) Bank managers at Cambridge Savings stick their heads out of their windows and cheer fervently. Ticker-tape in red, white and blue lands on our faces and on the faces of the fourteen Secret Service drag queens. As the band blares a triumphant rendition of "Ten Thousand Men of Harvard," I almost break down in tears. I am part of it: the descent to earth of the deity Michelle Pfeiffer.
As we approach the Hasty Pudding building, the cows, the little gymnastic girls, the dancers in traditional Mexican garb, and the cattle truck arrive first to herald the onslaught of the Woman of the Year. People are packed like sardines outside the Pudding; office workers are standing on the overhang at Holyoke Center and in the little coves above Harvard Real Estate. The sea of black-robed acrobats start to do back-flips to public accolades.
The Saab chariot pulls up and Michelle floatsout of it and into the theatre. Her fans onHolyoke Street have glimpsed the face of thegoddess and now return to the payroll department,the bakery, the dean's office.
I am relieved to get off the street and intothe civility of the theatre. The crossing of thisthreshold, I am aware, is where a strangemetamorphosis takes place. Outside the theatre,Ms. Pfeiffer is the deity and her followers aremerely a mass of salivating, brainless puppy dogs.Once inside the theatre, our roles reverse. Thisis the moment in which the true beauty of theHasty's tradition comes sharply into focus.
The theatre is an urbane place. Michelle entersafter the audience has been seated, and sits in anoff-center, third or fourth-row seat. Then theshow begins. In her last graceful moment, shewalks on stage to receive the shiny pudding potand a thorough roast.
In the course of the roast, Pfeiffer isrelentlessly knocked down form her pedestal.Forced into an impromptu audition for the role ofStephanie Zanoni, leader of the Pink Ladies in"Grease II," the tumbling deity garners onlycriticism. Tears form in her eyes, and she startsto cry. Is she having too much fun?
Next, she is handed a long leather bull-whipand ordered to demonstrate her Catwoman skills.She snaps it lamely, and is criticized. The twohosts of the show bend over and ask the fallendeity to serve as their dominatrix. She whips themfor kicks. Their kicks, of course. Oh, how themighty have fallen. It's hard to describe. Youjust had to be there.
The roast concludes, and Michelle--cut down tosize, human, fallible--slinks back into theaudience. As she sits there in her off-centerseat, nobody seems to be paying a great deal ofattention to her. Not even the press, who areunusually respectful of her at this moment.Respectful? Or have they just come to theconclusion, thanks to the Pudding, that she isonly human?
The Crimson is unceremoniously left outof the press conference, until our resourceful,zesty news reporter makes a brilliant argument inour favor to the hefty guards. We flash our presspasses and barely catch the last few moments ofthe conference.
The deposed Catwoman sits alone at a longtable, fielding questions from the three-tieredstacks of reporters and videographers. The firstquestion we hear is, "Ms. Pfeiffer--will you`meow' for us?" The human refuses to meow. This isnot ancient Egypt, and meowing might furtherdebase her species rank: deity, human, cat.
She tells everyone how much she likes JackNicholson, that she wishes she could go toHarvard, that she missed out on the collegeexperience, and that being in show business hasits ups and downs.
To this point, a charming frivolity, a merrynon-importance, a complete lack of any consequencehas marked the entire affair. This is my moment togive some substance to the Pfeiffer visit. I ask,"Ms. Pfeiffer, what's your view on the role andresponsibilities of the artist as citizen?" Myquestion elicits a little chuckle from thecognoscenti. Those reporters who don'trecall last week's goddess-visit look at me inpity and anger. Their eyes ask me, Do you reallythink she'll answer a question like that?Why not be useful, and ask her to meowagain? Feeling a bit stigmatized by these people,I qualify the question: "It's a question thatBarbra Streisand addressed here not two weeksago."
The cut-down deity ducks with a coy chuckle andsays, "Barbra answers that kind of question muchbetter than I do. She's really good at it." Herwords pay homage to a goddess never scaled-down bythe Pudding--only by The Crimson.
Still, I pursue: "But do you feel aresponsibility as an actress to serve as any typeof social force?"
I've cornered the cat, and she must answer."You know, I feel some responsibility in terms ofthe kinds of roles that I choose, the kinds offilms that I choose." Instead of answering, shegoes on for a while, even telling us about thedebate she and her husband got into with theirfriends about the movie "Pulp Fiction." On that,she concedes: "It's one of my favorite movies.Now, do I know what it's about? Nooooo... Youknow, is it violent? Yeeessss... Um, did I loveit? Yeah! I really liked it, and I liked it morethe second time through, once I knew kind of whatwas coming up. The first time it's just soshocking! But you know, I look at things a littlebit differently, you know, just from a craftsman'spoint of view." What was I expecting? ANobel-Prize-in-literature acceptance speech? Ishould have asked her to meow again.
Some words from the mouth of the Womanof the Year crystallize my day's encounter chasingMichelle through the Square. Also in response tomy question, Michelle muses, "Some movies are justmeant to be entertaining. They're not supposed tomake any social comment, and that's okay, too.Sometimes it's okay to be scared."
At points in the day, I was scared. Likewhen the cattle truck almost ran over 35 littlegirls in black jumpsuits. Like when I was so closeto the deity's Saab, an assassin could have missedher and hit me instead. Like when the reporterfrom the Associated Press growled at me for askingMs. Pfeiffer about her social responsibilities.But, she tells me, it's okay to be scared. Somethings are just meant to be entertaining, like thesurreal circus that descended onto Harvard Squareto give Michelle Pfeiffer a shiny brass pot.
She looked so happy parading down MassachusettsAvenue that afternoon, glowing with pride andwaving like a monarch to her adoring fans. Shelooked exasperated after the Pudding had finishedwith her. Michelle Pfeiffer never did `meow' forus; that would have been giving away the lastshred of humanity that the Pudding, in itsextraordinary tradition, had seduced from her.