“Hi, I’m Robert Osborne,” says our host Robert Osborne, emerging from the warm mahogany recesses of his Craftsman-style living room. He approaches the camera, smiling enigmatically, then drifts into a niche behind the leather sofa. He reemerges into an Orientalist fantasy of floor cushions, hookahs, and maroon draperies. Still approaching the camera, still smiling, he glides through a lofty hall of white plaster columns, sweeping staircases, and silvery fixtures. He doesn’t pick up the white telephone; he keeps on walking through room after room. In a flophouse with stained carpet and peeling wallpaper, he pauses next to a battered La-Z-Boy. He is still smiling, still looking at us. We can’t see his feet. Will he sit down? Will he ever sit down?
I’m talking on the phone in my apartment with the view of the Bay Bridge, saying I can’t believe how Mr. Hitchcock has chosen me to star in the remake of Vertigo. I mean, not only am I not an actress, I don’t look anything like Grace Kelly! I hobble downstairs on my new heels and head down the hill toward the bay, trying not to step in the cracks in the sidewalk. The shoes are beautiful, but I’m not sure I can walk all the way to Bodega. My gray skirt binds around the knees. It’s the color of pigeons.